RED   DUSK   AND 
THE  MORROW 


Ou~Oj\»J"~9 


RED    DUSK   AND 
THE   MORROW 

Adventures  and  Investigations 
in  Red  Russia 

BY 
SIR  PAUL  DUKES,   k.   b.   e. 

Former  Chief  of  the  British  Secret  Intelligence  Service  in  Soviet  Rtutia 


ILLUSTRATED 

FROM 

PHOTOGRAPHS    BY    THE    AUTHOR 


GARDEN    CITY  NEW   YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE    &    COMPANY 
1922 


COPYRIGHT,   1922,    BY 

DOTTBLEDAY,   PAGE    &    COMPANY 

Ait    EIGHTS    RESERVED,    INCLUDING    THAT    OF    TRANSLATION 

INTO  FOREIGN    LANGUAGES,   INCLUDING   THE   SCANDINAVIAN 

PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

AT 

THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  T. 


FOREWORD 

If  ever  there  was  a  period  when  people  blindly 
hitched  their  wagons  to  shibboleths  and  slogans  instead 
of  stars  it  is  the  present.  In  the  helter-skelter  of 
events  which  constantly  outrun  mankind,  the  essential 
meaning  of  commonly  used  words  is  becoming  increas- 
ingly confused.  Not  only  the  abstract  ideas  of  liberty, 
equality,  and  fraternity,  but  more  concrete  and  more 
recently  popularized  ones  such  as  proletariat,  bourgeois, 
soviet,  are  already  surrounded  with  a  sort  of  fungous 
growth  concealing  their  real  meaning,  so  that  every 
time  they  are  employed  they  have  to  be  freshly  defined. 

The  phenomenon  of  Red  Russia  is  a  supreme  ex- 
ample of  the  triumph  over  reason  of  the  shibboleth,  the 
slogan,  and  the  political  catchword.  War- weary  and 
politics-weary,  the  Russian  people  easily  succumbed  to 
those  who  promised  wildly  what  nobody  could  give,  the 
promisers  least  of  all.  Catchwords  such  as  "All  Power 
to  the  Soviets,"  possessing  cryptic  power  before  their 
coiners  seized  the  reins  of  government,  were  after- 
ward discovered  either  to  have  no  meaning  whatso- 
ever, or  else  to  be  endowed  with  some  arbitrary,  vari- 
able, and  quite  unforeseen  sense.  Similarly,  words 
such  as  "workers,"  "bourgeois,"  "proletariat,"  "im- 
perialist," "socialist,"  "cooperative,"  "soviet,"  are 
endowed  by  mob  orators  everywhere,  with  arbitrary 
significations,  meaning  one  thing  one  day  and  another 
the  next  as  occasion  demands. 


viii  FORE^WORD 

The  extreme  opponents  of  Bolshevism,  especially 
amongst  Russians,  have  sinned  in  this  respect  as  greatly 
as  the  extreme  proponents,  and  with  no  advantage  to 
themselves  even  in  their  own  class.  For  to  their  un- 
reasoning immoderation,  as  much  as  to  the  distortion 
of  ideas  by  ultra-radicals,  is  due  the  appearance,  among 
a  certain  class  of  people  of  inquiring  minds  but  in- 
complete information,  of  that  oddest  of  anomalies,  the 
"parlour  Bolshevik."  Clearness  of  vision  and  under- 
standing will  never  be  restored  until  precision  in  ter- 
minology is  again  reestablished,  and  that  will  take 
years  and  years. 

It  was  the  discrepancy  between  the  actualities  of 
Bolshevist  Russia  and  the  terminology  employed  by 
the  Red  leaders  that  impressed  me  beyond  all  else.  I 
soon  came  to  the  conclusion  that  this  elaborate  catch- 
phraseology  was  designed  primarily  for  propagandist 
purposes  in  foreign  countries,  for  the  Bolsheviks  in 
their  home  press  indulge  at  times  in  unexpected  spurts 
of  candour,  describing  their  own  failures  in  terms  that 
vie  with  those  of  their  most  inveterate  foes.  But 
they  still  cling  to  anomalous  terms,  such  as  "workers' 
and  peasants'  government"  and  "dictatorship  of  the 
proletariat." 

It  is  to  such  discrepancies  that  I  have  sought  to  draw 
attention  in  the  following  pages.  My  point  of  view 
was  neither  that  of  the  professional  politician,  nor  of  the 
social  reformer,  nor  of  the  stunt-journalist,  but  simply 
that  of  the  ordinary  human  individual,  the  "man  in  the 
street."  As  an  official  of  the  intelligence  service  the 
Soviet  Government  has  charged  me  with  conspiracies 
and  plots  to  overthrow  it.  But  I  went  to  Russia  not 
to  conspire  but  to  inquire.     The  Soviet  Government's 


FOREWORD  ix 

references  to  rne  have  not  been  felicitous  and  I  may  be 
pardoned  for  recalling  one  or  two  of  the  most  striking. 
At  the  close  of  1920  I  received  an  intimation  from  the 
Foreign  Office  that  on  January  16,  1920,  a  certain  Mr. 
Charles  Davison  had  been  executed  in  Moscow  and 
that  to  the  British  Government's  demand  for  an  ex- 
planation the  Soviet  Government  had  replied  that  Mr. 
Davison  was  shot  as  an  accomplice  of  my  "provocative 
activities."  The  letter  from  the  British  Foreign  Office 
was,  however,  my  first  intimation  that  such  a  person 
as  Mr.  Davison  had  ever  existed.  Again,  on  the  occa- 
sion of  the  last  advance  of  General  Yudenich  on  Petro- 
grad  the  Bolshevist  Government  asserted  that  I  was  the 
instigator  of  a  "White"  Government  which  should  seize 
power  upon  the  fall  of  the  city,  and  a  list  of  some  dozen 
or  so  ministers  was  published  who  were  said  to  have 
been  nominated  by  me.  Not  only  had  I  no  knowledge 
of  or  connection  with  the  said  government,  but  the 
prospective  ministers  with  one  exception  were  unknown 
to  me  even  by  name,  the  exception  being  a  gentleman 
I  had  formerly  heard  of  but  with  whom  I  had  never  had 
any  form  of  communication. 

It  would  be  tedious  to  recount  the  numerous  in- 
stances of  which  these  are  examples.  I  recognize  but 
few  of  the  names  with  which  the  Bolshevist  Government 
has  associated  mine.  The  majority  are  of  people  I 
have  never  met  or  heard  of.  Even  of  the  Englishmen 
and  women,  of  whom  the  Bolsheviks  arrested  several 
as  my  "accomplices,"  holding  them  in  prison  in  some 
cases  for  over  a  twelvemonth,  I  knew  but  few.  With 
only  one  had  I  had  any  communication  as  intelligence 
officer.  Some  of  the  others,  whom  I  met  subsequently, 
gave  me  the  interesting  information  that  their  arrest 


x  FOREWORD 

and  that  of  many  innocent  Russians  was  attributed  by 
the  Bolsheviks  to  a  "diary"  which  I  was  supposed  to 
have  kept  and  in  which  I  was  said  to  have  noted  their 
names.  This  "diary"  has  apparently  also  been  ex- 
hibited to  sympathetic  foreign  visitors  as  conclusive 
evidence  of  the  implication  of  the  said  Russians  and 
Britishers  in  my  numerous  "conspiracies!"  I  barely 
need  say  that,  inexperienced  though  I  was  in  the  art 
and  science  of  intelligence  work,  I  made  it  from  the 
outset  an  invariable  rule  in  making  notes  never  to  in- 
scribe any  name  or  address  except  in  a  manner  intelligi- 
ble to  no  living  soul  besides  myself,  while  the  only 
"diary"  I  ever  kept  was  the  chronicle  from  which  this 
book  is  partly  compiled,  made  during  those  brief  visits  to 
Finland  which  the  reader  will  find  described  in  the 
following  pages. 

It  goes  without  saying  that  this  book  is  not  designed 
to  rectify  this  record  of  inaccuracies  on  the  part  of  the 
Soviet  Government.  It  was  impossible  in  writing  my 
story  to  combine  precision  of  narrative  with  effective 
camouflage  of  individuals  and  places.  The  part  of  this 
book  which  deals  with  my  personal  experiences  is  there- 
fore not  complete,  but  is  a  selection  of  episodes  concern- 
ing a  few  individuals,  and  I  have  endeavoured  to  weave 
these  episodes  into  a  more  or  less  consecutive  narrative, 
showing  the  peculiar  chain  of  circumstances  which  led  to 
my  remaining  in  charge  of  the  intelligence  service  in 
Russia  for  the  best  part  of  a  year,  instead  of  a  month 
or  two,  as  I  had  originally  expected.  To  my  later 
travels  in  Bielorussia,  the  northern  Ukraine,  and 
Lithuania  I  make  but  little  reference,  since  my  ob- 
servations there  merely  confirmed  the  conclusions  I 
had  already  arrived  at  as  to  the  attitude  of  the  Russian 


FOREWORD  xi 

peasantry.  In  writing,  I  believe  I  have  achieved  what 
I  was  bound  to  regard  as  a  fundamental  condition, 
namely,  the  masking  of  the  characters  by  confusing 
persons  and  places  (except  in  one  or  two  instances  which 
are  now  of  small  import)  sufficiently  to  render  them 
untraceable  by  the  Bolshevist  authorities. 

"Even  when  one  thinks  a  view  unsound  or  a  scheme 
unworkable,"  says  Viscount  Bryce  in  "Modern  Democ- 
racies," "one  must  regard  all  honest  efforts  to  improve 
this  unsatisfactory  world  with  a  sympathy  which  rec- 
ognizes how  many  things  need  to  be  changed,  and  how 
many  doctrines  once  held  irrefragable  need  to  be  modi- 
fied in  the  light  of  supervenient  facts."  This  is  true  no 
less  of  Communist  experiments  than  of  any  others. 
If  in  this  book  I  dwell  almost  entirely  on  the  Russian 
people's  point  of  view,  and  not  on  that  of  their  present 
governors,  I  can  only  say  that  it  was  the  people's  point 
of  view  that  I  set  out  to  study.  The  Bolshevist  revolu- 
tion will  have  results  far  other  than  those  anticipated 
by  its  promoters,  but  in  the  errors  and  miscalculations 
of  the  Communists,  in  their  fanatical  efforts  to  better 
the  lot  of  mankind,  albeit  by  coercion  and  bloodshed, 
lessons  are  to  be  learned  which  will  be  of  incalculable 
profit  to  humanity.  But  the  greatest  and  most  inspir- 
ing lesson  of  all  will  be  the  ultimate  example  of  the 
Russian  people,  by  wondrous  patience  and  invincible 
endurance  overcoming  their  present  and  perhaps  even 
greater  tribulation,  and  emerging  triumphant  through 
persevering  belief  in  the  truths  of  that  philosophy  which 
the  Communists  describe  as  "the  opium  of  the  people." 


"...  Nothing  is  more  vital  to  national  prog- 
ress than  the  spontaneous  development  of  individ- 
ual character.  .  .  .  Independence  of  thought 
was  formerly  threatened  by  monarchs  who 
feared  the  disaffection  of  their  subjects.  May  it 
not  again  be  threatened  by  other  forms  of  intol- 
erance, possible  even  in  a  popular  government  ?  " 

—  Bryce,  Modern  Democracies 


CONTENTS 
PART  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    One  of  the  Crowd 1 

II.    Five  Days 31 

III.  The  Green  Shawl 82 

IV.  Meshes 117 

V.    Melnikoff 136 

VI.     Stepanovna 158 

VII.    Finland 168 

VIII.    A  Village  "Bourgeois-Capitalist"     .     .     .  188 

IX.    Metamorphosis 200 

PART  II 

X.    The  Sphinx 219 

XI.    The  Red  Army       225 

XII.     "The  Party"  and  the  People 262 

XIII.  Escape 298 

XIV.  Conclusion 307 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Portions  of  this  book  first  appeared,  in  slightly 
different  form,  in  Harper's  Magazine,  The  Atlantic 
Monthly,  and  The  World's  Work. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 
Paul  Dukes Frontispiece 


FACING  PAQB 


The  author  as  he  appeared  on  various  occasions  in 

Soviet  Russia 50 

Passport  with  which  author  crossed  the  frontier.  51 

Typical  view  of  a  Russian  village 66 

The  author  and  peasant  children 66 

Night  photograph  of  the  Fortress  of  Peter  and 

Paul 67 

A  review  by  Trotzky  of  Red  troops  ....  67 
"Speculation"    in    the    streets    of    the    Russian 

capital 130 

Cartoons  published  previous  to  the  return  of  the 

Bolsheviks  to  Russia 131 

A  typical  peasant  "bourgeois-capitalist"  .  .  .  146 
Peasants  hiding  their  grain  from  Bolshevist  req- 

uisitioners 147 

Night  quarters  of  the  "bourgeois" 210 

A  daughter  of  the  soil 211 

Bridge  at  Grodno  destroyed  by  the  Reds.  .  .  226 
The  author  and  the  Colonel  of  the  Polish  Women's 

Death  Battalion 227 

The   Tauride  Palace,   headquarters   of   Russian 

Duma,  at  Petrograd 290 

Travelling  in  Soviet  Russia 291 

Save  Russia's  children ! 306 


PART  I 


RED  DUSK 

AND 

THE  MORROW 

CHAPTER  I 

ONE   OF   THE   CROWD 

The  snow  glittered  brilliantly  in  the  frosty  sunshine 
on  the  afternoon  of  March  11,  1917.  The  Nevsky 
Prospect  was  almost  deserted.  The  air  was  tense  with 
excitement  and  it  seemed  as  if  from  the  girdling  fau- 
bourgs of  the  beautiful  city  of  Peter  the  Great  rose  a 
low,  muffled  rumbling  as  of  many  voices.  Angry,  pas- 
sionate voices,  rolling  like  distant  thunder,  while  in  the 
heart  of  the  city  all  was  still  and  quiet.  A  mounted 
patrol  stood  here  or  there,  or  paced  the  street  with 
measured  step.  There  were  bloodstains  on  the  white 
snow,  and  from  the  upper  end  of  the  Prospect  still  re- 
sounded the  intermittent  crack  of  rifles. 

How  still  those  corpses  lay  over  there!  Their  teeth 
grinned  ghastlily.  Who  were  they  and  how  did  they 
die?  Who  knew  or  cared?  Perhaps  a  mother,  a 
wife.  .  .  .  The  fighting  was  in  the  early  morning. 
A  crowd — a  cry — a  command — a  volley — panic — an 
empty  street — silence — and  a  little  group  of  corpses 
hideous,  motionless  in  the  cold  sunshine! 

Stretched  across  the  wide  roadway  lay  a  cordon  of 

1 


2  RED  DUSK  AXD  THE  MORROW 
police  disguised  as  soldiers,  prostrate,  firing  at  inter- 
vals. The  disguise  was  an  attempt  to  deceive,  for  it 
was  known  that  the  soldiers  sided  with  the  people. 
"It  is  coming,"  I  found  myself  repeating  mechanically, 
over  and  over  again,  and  picturing  a  great  cataclysm, 
terrible  and  overwhelming,  yet  passionately  hoped  for. 
"It  is  coming,  any  time  now — to-morrow — the  day 
after " 

What  a  day  the  morrow  was !  I  saw  the  first  revolu- 
tionary regiments  come  out  and  witnessed  the  sacking 
of  the  arsenal  by  the  infuriated  mob.  Over  the  river 
the  soldiers  were  breaking  into  the  Kresty  Prison. 
Crushing  throngs  surged  round  the  Duma  building  at 
the  Tauride  Palace,  and  toward  evening,  after  the 
Tsarist  police  had  been  scattered  in  the  Nevsky  Pros- 
pect, there  rose  a  mighty  murmur,  whispered  in  awe 
on  a  million  lips:  "Revolution!"  A  new  era  was  to 
open.  The  revolution,  so  thought  I,  would  be  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  of  Russia!  In  my  im- 
agination I  figured  to  myself  a  huge  pendulum, 
weighted  with  the  pent-up  miseries  and  woes  of  a 
hundred  and  eighty  millions  of  people,  which  had  sud- 
denly been  set  in  motion.  How  far  would  it  swing? 
How  many  times?  When  and  where  would  it  come 
to  rest,  its  vast,  hidden  store  of  energy  expended? 

Late  that  night  I  stood  outside  the  Tauride  Palace, 
which  had  become  the  centre  of  the  revolution.  No 
one  was  admitted  through  the  great  gates  without  a 
pass.  I  sought  a  place  midway  between  the  gates  and, 
when  no  one  was  looking,  scrambled  up,  dropped  over 
the  railings,  and  ran  through  the  bushes  straight  to  the 
main  porch.  Here  I  soon  met  folk  I  knew — comrades 
of    student   days,    revolutionists.     What    a    spectacle 


ONE  OF  THE  CROWD  3 

within  the  palace,  lately  so  still  and  dignified!  Tired 
soldiers  lay  sleeping  in  heaps  in  every  hall  and  corridor. 
The  vaulted  lobby,  where  Duma  members  had  flitted 
silently,  was  packed  almost  to  the  roof  with  all  manner 
of  truck,  baggage,  arms,  and  ammunition.  All  night 
long  and  the  next  I  laboured  with  the  revolutionists 
to  turn  the  Tauride  Palace  into  a  revolutionary  ar- 
senal. 

Thus  began  the  revolution.  And  after?  Everyone 
knows  now  how  the  hopes  of  freedom  were  blighted. 
Truly  had  Russia's  foe,  Germany,  who  despatched  the 
proletarian  dictator  Lenin  and  his  satellites  to  Russia, 
discovered  the  Achilles'  heel  of  the  Russian  revolution! 
Everyone  now  knows  how  the  flowers  of  the  revolution 
withered  under  the  blast  of  the  Class  War,  and  how 
Russia  was  replunged  into  starvation  and  serfdom. 
I  will  not  dwell  on  these  things.  My  story  relates  to 
the  time  when  they  were  already  cruel  realities. 

My  reminiscences  of  the  first  year  of  Bolshevist  ad- 
ministration are  jumbled  into  a  kaleidoscopic  pano- 
rama of  impressions  gained  while  journeying  from 
city  to  city,  sometimes  crouched  in  the  corner  of 
crowded  box-cars,  sometimes  travelling  in  comfort, 
sometimes  riding  on  the  steps,  and  sometimes  on  the 
roofs  or  buffers.  I  was  nominally  in  the  service  of  the 
British  Foreign  Office,  but  the  Anglo-Russian  Com- 
mission (of  which  I  was  a  member)  having  quit  Russia, 
I  attached  myself  to  the  American  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  doing 
relief  work.  A  year  after  the  revolution  I  found  myself 
in  the  eastern  city  of  Samara,  training  a  detachment  of 
boy  scouts.  As  the  snows  of  winter  melted  and  the 
spring  sunshine  shed  joy  and  cheerfulness  around,  I  held 
my  parades  and  together  with  my  American  colleagues 


4  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

organized  outings  and  sports.  The  new  proletarian 
lawgivers  eyed  our  manoeuvres  askance  but  were  too 
preoccupied  in  dispossessing  the  "bourgeoisie"  to  devote 
serious  attention  to  the  "counter  revolutionary"  scouts, 
however  pronounced  the  anti-Bolshevik  sympathies  of 
the  latter.  "Be  prepared!"  the  scouts  would  cry, 
greeting  each  other  in  the  street.  And  the  answer, 
"Always  prepared!",  had  a  deep  significance,  intensi- 
fied by  their  boyish  enthusiasm. 

Then  one  day,  when  in  Moscow,  I  was  handed  an 
unexpected  telegram.  "Urgent" — from  the  British 
Foreign  Office.  "You  are  wanted  at  once  in  London," 
it  ran.  I  set  out  for  Archangel  without  delay.  Mos- 
cow, with  its  turbulences,  its  political  wranglings,  its 
increasing  hunger,  its  counter-revolutionary  conspir- 
acies, with  Count  Mirbach  and  his  German  designs, 
was  left  behind.  Like  a  bombshell  followed  the  news 
that  Mirbach  was  murdered.  Leaning  over  the  side 
of  the  White  Sea  steamer,  a  thousand  kilometers  from 
Moscow,  I  cursed  my  luck  that  I  was  not  in  the  capital. 
I  stood  and  watched  the  sun  dip  low  to  the  horizon; 
hover,  an  oval  mass  of  fire,  on  the  edge  of  the  blazing 
sea;  merge  with  the  water;  and,  without  disappearing, 
mount  again  to  celebrate  the  triumph  over  darkness 
of  the  nightless  Arctic  summer.  Then,  Murmansk 
and  perpetual  day,  a  destroyer  to  Petchenga,  a  tug  to 
the  Norwegian  frontier,  a  ten-day  journey  round  the 
North  Capt  and  by  the  fairy-land  of  Norwegian  fjords 
to  Bergen,  with  finally  a  zigzag  course  across  the  North 
Sea,  dodging  submarines,  to  Scotland. 

At  Aberdeen  the  control  officer  had  received  orders 
to  pass  me  through  by  the  first  train  to  London.  At 
Kings  Cross  a  car  was  waiting,  and  knowing  neither  my 


ONE  OF  THE  CROWD  5 

destination  nor  the  cause  of  my  recall  I  was  driven  to 
a  building  in  a  side  street  in  the  vicinity  of  Trafalgar 
Square.  "This  way,"  said  the  chauffeur,  leaving  the 
car.  The  chauffeur  had  a  face  like  a  mask.  We  en- 
tered the  building  and  the  elevator  whisked  us  to  the 
top  floor,  above  which  additional  superstructures  had 
been  built  for  war-emergency  offices. 

I  had  always  associated  rabbit-warrens  with  subter- 
ranean abodes,  but  here  in  this  building  I  discovered  a 
maze  of  rabbit-burrow-like  passages,  corridors,  nooks, 
and  alcoves,  piled  higgledy-piggledy  on  the  roof. 
Leaving  the  elevator  my  guide  led  me  up  one  flight  of 
steps  so  narrow  that  a  corpulent  man  would  have  stuck 
tight,  then  down  a  similar  flight  on  the  other  side,  under 
wooden  archways  so  low  that  we  had  to  stoop,  round 
unexpected  corners,  and  again  up  a  flight  of  steps  which 
brought  us  out  on  the  roof.  Crossing  a  short  iron  bridge 
we  entered  another  maze,  until  just  as  I  was  beginning 
to  feel  dizzy  I  was  shown  into  a  tiny  room  about  ten 
feet  square  where  sat  an  officer  in  the  uniform  of  a  Brit- 
ish colonel.  The  impassive  chauffeur  announced  me 
and  withdrew. 

"Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Dukes,"  said  the  colonel,  ris- 
ing and  greeting  me  with  a  warm  handshake.  "I  am 
glad  to  see  you.  You  doubtless  wonder  that  no  ex- 
planation has  been  given  you  as  to  why  you  should  re- 
turn to  England.  Well,  I  have  to  inform  you,  con- 
fidentially, that  it  has  been  proposed  to  offer  you  a 
somewhat  responsible  post  in  the  Secret  Intelligence 
Service." 

I  gasped.     "But,"  I  stammered,  "I  have  never 

May  I  ask  what  it  implies?" 

"Certainly,"  he  replied.     "We  have  reason  to  be- 


6  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

lieve  that  Russia  will  not  long  continue  to  be  open  to 
foreigners.  We  wish  someone  to  remain  there  to  keep 
us  informed  of  the  march  of  events." 

"But,"  I  put  in,  "my  present  work?  It  is  im- 
portant, and  if  I  drop  it " 

"We  foresaw  that  objection,"  replied  the  colonel, 
"and  I  must  tell  you  that  under  war  regulations  we 
have  the  right  to  requisition  your  services  if  need  be. 
You  have  been  attached  to  the  Foreign  Office.  This 
office  also  works  in  conjunction  with  the  Foreign  Office, 
which  has  been  consulted  on  this  question.  Of  course," 
he  added,  bitingly,  "if  the  risk  or  danger  alarms  you " 

I  forget  what  I  said  but  he  did  not  continue. 

"Very  well,"  he  proceeded,  "consider  the  matter  and 
return  at  4 :30  to-morrow.  If  you  have  no  valid  reasons 
for  not  accepting  this  post  we  will  consider  you  as  in 
our  service  and  I  will  tell  you  further  details."  He 
rang  a  bell.  A  young  lady  appeared  and  escorted  me 
out,  threading  her  way  with  what  seemed  to  me  mar- 
vellous dexterity  through  the  maze  of  passages. 

Burning  with  curiosity  and  fascinated  already  by 
the  mystery  of  this  elevated  labyrinth  I  ventured  a 
query  to  my  young  female  guide.  "What  sort  of 
establishment  is  this?"  I  said.  I  detected  a  twinkle 
in  her  eye.  She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  without 
replying  pressed  the  button  for  the  elevator.  "Good 
afternoon,"  was  all  she  said  as  I  passed  in. 

Next  day  another  young  lady  escorted  me  up  and 
down  the  narrow  stairways  and  ushered  me  into  the 
presence  of  the  colonel.  I  found  him  in  a  fair-sized 
apartment  with  easy  chairs  and  walls  hidden  by  book- 
cases. He  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that  I  had 
nothing  to  say.     "  I  will  tell  you  briefly  what  we  desire," 


ONE  OF  THE  CROWD  7 

he  said.  "Then  you  may  make  any  comments  you 
wish,  and  I  will  take  you  up  to  interview — er — the  Chief. 
Briefly,  we  want  you  to  return  to  Soviet  Russia  and  to 
send  reports  on  the  situation  there.  We  wish  to  be 
accurately  informed  as  to  the  attitude  of  every  section 
of  the  community,  the  degree  of  support  enjoyed  by 
the  Bolshevist  Government,  the  development  and 
modification  of  its  policy,  what  possibility  there  may 
be  for  an  alteration  of  regime  or  for  a  counter-revolu- 
tion, and  what  part  Germany  is  playing.  As  to  the 
means  whereby  you  gain  access  to  the  country,  under 
what  cover  you  will  live  there,  and  how  you  will  send 
out  reports,  we  shall  leave  it  to  you,  being  best  informed 
as  to  conditions,  to  make  suggestions." 

He  expounded  his  views  on  Russia,  asking  for  my 
corroboration  or  correction,  and  also  mentioned  the 
names  of  a  few  English  people  I  might  come  into  con- 
tact with.  "I  will  see  if— er— the  Chief  is  ready," 
he  said  finally,  rising,  "I  will  be  back  in  a  moment." 

The  apartment  appeared  to  be  an  office  but  there 
were  no  papers  on  the  desk.  I  rose  and  stared  at  the 
books  on  the  bookshelves.  My  attention  was  arrested 
by  an  edition  of  Thackeray's  works  in  a  decorative 
binding  of  what  looked  like  green  morocco.  I  used  at 
one  time  to  dabble  in  bookbinding  and  am  always 
interested  in  an  artistically  bound  book.  I  took  down 
Henry  Esmond  from  the  shelf.  To  my  bewilderment 
the  cover  did  not  open,  until,  passing  my  finger  acci- 
dentally along  what  I  thought  was  the  edge  of  the  pages, 
the  front  suddenly  flew  open  of  itself,  disclosing  a  box! 
In  my  astonishment  I  almost  dropped  the  volume  and 
a  sheet  of  paper  slipped  out  on  to  the  floor.  I  picked  it 
up  hastily  and  glanced  at  it.     It  was  headed  Kriegs- 


8  RED  DUSK  AXD  THE  MORROW 

ministerium,  Berlin,  had  the  German  Imperial  arms 
imprinted  on  it,  and  was  covered  with  minute  handwrit- 
ing in  German.  I  had  barely  slipped  it  back  into  the 
box  and  replaced  the  volume  on  the  shelf  when  the  colo- 
nel returned. 

"A — the — er — Chief  is  not  in,"  he  said,  "But  you 
may  see  him  to-morrow.  You  are  interested  in  books?  " 
he  added,  seeing  me  looking  at  the  shelves.  "I  collect 
them.  That  is  an  interesting  old  volume  on  Cardinal 
Richelieu,  if  you  care  to  look  at  it.  I  picked  it  up  in 
Charing  Cross  Road  for  a  shilling."  The  volume  men- 
tioned was  immediately  above  Henry  Esmond.  I 
took  it  down  warily,  expecting  something  uncommon 
to  occur,  but  it  was  only  a  musty  old  volume  in  French 
with  torn  leaves  and  soiled  pages.  I  pretended  to 
be  interested.  "There  is  not  much  else  there  worth 
looking  at,  I  think,"  said  the  colonel,  casually.  "Well, 
good-bye.     Come  in  to-morrow." 

I  wondered  mightily  who  "the  Chief"  of  this  es- 
tablishment could  be  and  what  he  would  be  like.  The 
young  lady  smiled  enigmatically  as  she  showed  me  to 
the  elevator.  I  returned  again  next  day  after  thinking 
overnight  how  I  should  get  back  to  Russia — and  de- 
ciding on  nothing.  My  mind  seemed  to  be  a  complete 
blank  on  the  subject  in  hand  and  I  was  entirely  ab- 
sorbed in  the  mysteries  of  the  roof-labyrinth. 

Again  I  was  shown  into  the  colonel's  sitting  room. 
My  eyes  fell  instinctively  on  the  bookshelf.  The 
colonel  was  in  a  genial  mood.  "I  see  you  like  my 
collection,"  he  said.  "That,  by  the  way,  is  a  fine 
edition  of  Thackeray."  My  heart  leaped!  "It  is  the 
most  luxurious  binding  I  have  ever  yet  found.  Would 
you  not  like  to  look  at  it?" 


ONE  OF  THE  CROWD  9 

I  looked  at  the  colonel  very  hard,  but  his  face  was 
a  mask.  My  immediate  conclusion  was  that  he  wished 
to  initiate  me  into  the  secrets  of  the  department. 
I  rose  quickly  and  took  down  Henry  Esmond,  which 
was  in  exactly  the  same  place  as  it  had  been  the  day 
before.  To  my  utter  confusion  it  opened  quite  nat- 
urally and  I  found  in  my  hands  nothing  more  than  an 
edition  de  luxe  printed  on  Indian  paper  and  profusely 
illustrated!  I  stared  bewildered  at  the  shelf.  There 
was  no  other  Henry  Esmond.  Immediately  over  the 
vacant  space  stood  the  life  of  Cardinal  Richelieu  as 
it  had  stood  yesterday.  I  replaced  the  volume, 
and  trying  not  to  look  disconcerted  turned  to  the 
colonel.  His  expression  was  quite  impassive,  even 
bored.  "It  is  a  beautiful  edition,"  he  repeated,  as  if 
wearily.  "Now  if  you  are  ready  we  will  go  and  see 
— er— the  Chief." 

Feeling  very  foolish  I  stuttered  assent  and  fol- 
lowed. As  we  proceeded  through  the  maze  of  stair- 
ways and  unexpected  passages  which  seemed  to  me 
like  a  miniature  House  of  Usher,  I  caught  glimpses  of 
treetops,  of  the  Embankment  Gardens,  the  Thames, 
the  Tower  Bridge,  and  Westminster.  From  the  sud- 
denness with  which  the  angle  of  view  changed  I  con- 
cluded that  in  reality  we  were  simply  gyrating  in  one 
very  limited  space,  and  when  suddenly  we  entered  a 
spacious  study — the  sanctum  of  " — er — the  Chief" 
— I  had  an  irresistible  sentiment  that  we  had  moved 
only  a  few  yards  and  that  this  study  was  immediately 
above  the  colonel's  office. 

It  was  a  low,  dark  chamber  at  the  extreme  top  of  the 
building.  The  colonel  knocked,  entered,  and  stood 
at    attention.     Nervous    and    confused    I    followed, 


10         RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

painfully  conscious  that  at  that  moment  I  could  not 
have  expressed  a  sane  opinion  on  any  subject  under 
the  sun.  From  the  threshold  the  room  seemed  bathed 
in  semi-obscurity.  The  writing  desk  was  so  placed 
with  the  window  behind  it  that  on  entering  everything 
appeared  only  in  silhouette.  It  was  some  seconds 
before  I  could  clearly  distinguish  things.  A  row  of 
half-a-dozen  extending  telephones  stood  at  the  left  of 
a  big  desk  littered  with  papers.  On  a  side  table  were 
numerous  maps  and  drawings,  with  models  of  aero- 
planes, submarines,  and  mechanical  devices,  while  a 
row  of  bottles  of  various  colours  and  a  distilling  outfit 
with  a  rack  of  test  tubes  bore  witness  to  chemical 
experiments  and  operations.  These  evidences  of  scien- 
tific investigation  only  served  to  intensify  an  already 
overpowering  atmosphere  of  strangeness  and  mystery. 

But  it  was  not  these  things  that  engaged  my  atten- 
tion as  I  stood  nervously  waiting.  It  was  not  the 
bottles  or  the  machinery  that  attracted  my  gaze. 
My  eyes  fixed  themselves  on  the  figure  at  the  writing 
table.  In  the  capacious  swing  desk-chair,  his  shoul- 
ders hunched,  with  his  head  supported  on  one  hand, 
busily  writing,  there  sat  in  his  shirt  sleeves 

Alas,  no!  Pardon  me,  reader,  I  was  forgetting! 
There  are  still  things  I  may  not  divulge.  There  are 
things  that  must  still  remain  shrouded  in  secrecy. 
And  one  of  them  is — who  was  the  figure  in  the  swing 
desk-chair  in  the  darkened  room  at  the  top  of  the 
roof-labyrinth  near  Trafalgar  Square  on  this  August 
day  in  1918.  I  may  not  describe  him,  nor  mention 
even  one  of  his  twenty-odd  names.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that,  awe-inspired  as  I  was  at  this  first  encounter, 
I  soon  learned  to  regard  "the  Chief"  with  feelings  of  the 


ONE  OF  THE  CROWD  11 

deepest  personal  regard  and  admiration.  He  was  a 
British  officer  and  an  English  gentleman  of  the  finest 
stamp,  absolutely  fearless  and  gifted  with  limitless 
resources  of  subtle  ingenuity,  and  I  count  it  one  of  the 
greatest  privileges  of  my  life  to  have  been  brought 
within  the  circle  of  his  acquaintanceship. 

In  silhouette  I  saw  myself  motioned  to  a  chair.  The 
Chief  wrote  for  a  moment  and  then  suddenly  turned 
with  the  unexpected  remark,  "So  I  understand  you 
want  to  go  back  to  Soviet  Russia,  do  you?"  as 
if  it  had  been  my  own  suggestion.  The  conversation 
was  brief  and  precise.  The  words  Archangel,  Stock- 
holm, Riga,  Helsingfors  recurred  frequently,  and  the 
names  were  mentioned  of  English  people  in  those  places 
and  in  Petrograd.  It  was  finally  decided  that  I  alone 
should  determine  how  and  by  what  route  I  should  regain 
access  to  Russia  and  how  I  should  despatch  reports. 

"Don't  go  and  get  killed,"  said  the  Chief  in  con- 
clusion, smiling.  "You  will  put  him  through  the 
ciphers,"  he  added  to  the  colonel,  "and  take  him  to  the 
laboratory  to  learn  the  inks  and  all  that." 

We  left  the  Chief  and  arrived  by  a  single  flight  of  steps 
at  the  door  of  the  colonel's  room.  The  colonel  laughed. 
"You  will  find  your  way  about  in  course  of  time," 
he  said.     "Let  us  go  to  the  laboratory  at  once     .     .     ." 

And  here  I  draw  a  veil  over  the  roof -labyrinth. 
Three  weeks  later  I  set  out  for  Russia,  into  the  un- 
known. 

I  resolved  to  make  my  first  attempt  at  entry  from 
the  north,  and  travelled  up  to  Archangel  on  a  troop- 
ship of  American  soldiers,  most  of  whom  hailed  from 
Detroit.  But  I  found  the  difficulties  at  Archangel 
to  be  much  greater  than  I  had  anticipated.     It  was 


12         RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

600  miles  to  Petrograd  and  most  of  this  distance  would 
have  to  be  done  on  foot  through  unknown  moorland 
and  forest.  The  roads  were  closely  watched,  and 
before  my  plans  were  ready  autumn  storms  broke  and 
made  the  moors  and  marshes  impassable.  But  at 
Archangel,  realizing  that  to  return  to  Russia  as  an 
Englishman  was  impossible,  I  let  my  beard  grow  and 
assumed  an  appearance  entirely  Russian. 

Failing  in  Archangel  I  travelled  down  to  Helsingfors 
to  try  my  luck  from  the  direction  of  Finland.  Hel- 
singfors, the  capital  of  Finland,  is  a  busy  little  city 
bristling  with  life  and  intrigue.  At  the  time  of  which 
I  am  writing  it  was  a  sort  of  dumping-ground  for  every 
variety  of  conceivable  and  inconceivable  rumour,  slan- 
der, and  scandal,  repudiated  elsewhere  but  swallowed 
by  the  gullible  scandalmongers,  especially  German 
and  ancien  regime  Russian,  who  found  in  this  city  a 
haven  of  rest.  Helsingfors  was  one  of  the  unhealth- 
iest  spots  in  Europe.  Whenever  mischance  brought 
me  there  I  lay  low,  avoided  society,  and  made  it  a 
rule  to  tell  everybody  the  direct  contrary  of  my  real 
intentions,  even  in  trivial  matters. 

In  Helsingfors  I  was  introduced  at  the  British 
Consulate  to  an  agent  of  the  American  Secret  Service 
who  had  recently  escaped  from  Russia.  This  gentle- 
man gave  me  a  letter  to  a  Russian  officer  in  Viborg, 
by  name  Melnikoff.  The  little  town  of  Viborg,  being 
the  nearest  place  of  importance  to  the  Russian  fron- 
tier, was  a  hornet's  nest  of  Russian  refugees,  counter- 
revolutionary conspirators,  German  agents,  and  Bol- 
shevist spies,  worse  if  anything  than  Helsingfors. 
Disguised  now  as  a  middle-class  commercial  traveller 
I  journeyed  on  to  Viborg,  took  a  room  at  the  same  hotel 


ONE  OF  THE  CROWD  13 

as  I  had  been  told  Melnikoff  stayed  at,  looked  him 
up,  and  presented  my  note  of  introduction.  I  found 
him  to  be  a  Russian  naval  officer  of  the  finest  stamp 
and  intuitively  conceived  an  immediate  liking  for  him. 
His  real  name,  I  discovered,  was  not  Melnikoff,  but 
in  those  parts  many  people  had  a  variety  of  names  to 
suit  different  occasions.  My  meeting  with  him  was 
providential,  for  it  appeared  that  he  had  worked  with 
Captain  Crombie,  late  British  Naval  Attache  at 
Petrograd.  In  September,  1918,  Captain  Crombie  was 
murdered  by  the  Bolsheviks  at  the  British  Embassy 
and  it  was  the  threads  of  his  shattered  organization 
that  I  hoped  to  pick  up  upon  arrival  in  Petrograd. 
Melnikoff  was  slim,  dark,  with  stubbly  hair,  blue  eyes, 
short  and  muscular.  He  was  deeply  religious  and  was 
imbued  with  an  intense  hatred  of  the  Bolsheviks — 
not  without  reason,  since  both  his  father  and  his 
mother  had  been  brutally  shot  by  them,  and  he  him- 
self had  only  escaped  by  a  miracle.  "The  searchers 
came  at  night,"  he  related  the  story  to  me.  "I  had 
some  papers  referring  to  the  insurrection  at  Yaroslavl 
which  my  mother  kept  for  me.  They  demanded  access 
to  my  mother's  room.  My  father  barred  the  way, 
saying  she  was  dressing.  A  sailor  tried  to  push 
past,  and  my  father  angrily  struck  him  aside.  Sud- 
denly a  shot  rang  out  and  my  father  fell  dead  on  the 
threshold  of  my  mother's  bedroom.  I  was  in  the 
kitchen  when  the  Reds  came  and  through  the  door 
I  fired  and  killed  two  of  them.  A  volley  of  shots  was 
directed  at  me.  I  was  wounded  in  the  hand  and  only 
just  escaped  by  the  back  stairway.  Two  weeks  later 
my  mother  was  executed  on  account  of  the  discovery 
of  my  papers." 


14  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

Melnikoff  had  but  one  sole  object  left  in  life — to 
avenge  his  parent's  blood.  This  was  all  he  lived  for. 
As  far  as  Russia  was  concerned  he  was  frankly  a  mon- 
archist, so  I  avoided  talking  politics  with  him.  But 
we  were  friends  from  the  moment  we  met,  and  I  had 
the  peculiar  feeling  that  somewhere,  long,  long  ago, 
we  had  met  before,  although  I  knew  this  was  not  so. 

Melnikoff  was  overjoyed  to  learn  of  my  desire  to 
return  to  Soviet  Russia.  He  undertook  not  only  to 
make  the  arrangements  with  the  Finnish  frontier 
patrols  for  me  to  be  put  across  the  frontier  at  night 
secretly,  but  also  to  precede  me  to  Petrograd  and  make 
arrangements  there  for  me  to  find  shelter.  Great 
hostility  still  existed  between  Finland  and  Soviet 
Russia.  Skirmishes  frequently  occurred,  and  the  fron- 
tier was  guarded  jealously  by  both  sides.  Melnikoff 
gave  me  two  addresses  in  Petrograd  where  I  might  find 
him,  one  at  a  hospital  where  he  had  formerly  lived, 
and  the  other  of  a  small  cafe  which  still  existed  in  a 
private  flat  unknown  to  the  Bolshevist  authorities. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  pardonable  sin  in  Melnikoff  that  he 
was  a  toper.  We  spent  three  days  together  in  Viborg 
making  plans  for  Petrograd  while  he  drank  up 
all  my  whiskey  except  a  small  medicine  bottle  full 
which  I  hid  away.  When  he  had  satisfied  himself 
that  my  stock  was  really  exhausted  he  announced 
himself  ready  to  start.  It  was  a  Friday  and  we  arranged 
that  I  should  follow  two  days  later  on  Sunday  night, 
the  24th  of  November.  [Melnikoff  wrote  out  a  password 
on  a  slip  of  paper.  "Give  that  to  the  Finnish  patrols," 
he  said,  "at  the  third  house,  the  wooden  one  with  the 
white  porch,  on  the  left  of  the  frontier  bridge." 

At  six  o'clock  he  went  into  his  room,  returning  in 


ONE  OF  THE  CROWD  15 

a  few  minutes  so  transformed  that  I  hardly  recognized 
him.  He  wore  a  sort  of  seaman's  cap  that  came  right 
down  over  his  eyes.  He  had  dirtied  his  face,  and  this, 
added  to  the  three-days-old  hirsute  stubble  on  his  chin, 
gave  him  a  truly  demoniacal  appearance.  He  wore 
a  shabby  coat  and  trousers  of  a  dark  colour,  and  a  muffler 
was  tied  closely  round  his  neck.  He  looked  a  perfect 
apache  as  he  stowed  away  a  big  Colt  revolver  inside 
his  trousers. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said,  simply,  extending  his  hand; 
then  stopped  and  added,  "let  us  observe  the  good  old 
Russian  custom  and  sit  down  for  a  minute  together." 
According  to  a  beautiful  custom  that  used  to  be  ob- 
served in  Russia  in  the  olden  days,  friends  sit  down  at 
the  moment  of  parting  and  maintain  a  moment's 
complete  silence  while  each  wishes  the  others  a  safe 
journey  and  prosperity.  Melnikoff  and  I  sat  down 
opposite  each  other.  With  what  fervour  I  wished  him 
success  on  the  dangerous  journey  he  was  undertaking 
for  me!  Suppose  he  were  shot  in  crossing  the  frontier? 
Neither  I  nor  would  any  one  know!  He  would  just 
vanish — one  more  good  man  gone  to  swell  the  toll  of  vic- 
tims of  the  revolution.  And  I?  Well,  I  might  follow! 
'Twas  a  question  of  luck,  and  'twas  all  in  the  game ! 

We  rose.  "Good-bye,"  said  Melnikoff  again.  He 
turned,  crossed  himself,  and  passed  out  of  the  room.  On 
the  threshold  he  looked  back.  "Sunday  evening," 
he  added,  "without  fail."  I  had  a  curious  feeling  I 
ought  to  say  something,*  I  knew  not  what,  but  no 
words  came.  I  followed  him  quickly  down  the  stairs. 
He  did  not  look  round  again.  At  the  street  door  he 
glanced  rapidly  in  every  direction,  pulled  his  cap  still 
further  over  his  eyes,  and  passed  away  into  the  dark- 


16    RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

ness — to  an  adventure  that  was  to  cost  him  his  life. 
I  only  saw  him  once  more  after  that,  for  a  brief  moment 
in  Petrograd,  under  dramatic  circumstances — but  that 
comes  later  in  my  story. 

I  slept  little  that  night.  My  thoughts  were  all  of 
Melnikoff,  somewhere  or  other  at  dead  of  night  risk- 
ing his  life,  outwitting  the  Red  outposts.  He  would 
laugh  away  danger,  I  was  sure,  if  caught  in  a  tight 
corner.  His  laugh  would  be  a  devilish  one — the  sort 
to  allay  all  Bolshevist  suspicions!  Then,  in  the  last 
resort,  was  there  not  always  his  Colt?  I  thought  of 
his  past,  of  his  mother  and  father,  of  the  story  he  had 
related  to  me.  How  his  fingers  would  itch  to  handle 
that  Colt! 

I  rose  early  next  day  but  there  was  not  much  for  me 
to  do.  Being  Saturday  the  Jewish  booths  in  the 
usually  busy  little  market-place  were  shut  and  only 
the  Finnish  ones  were  open.  Most  articles  of  the 
costume  which  I  had  decided  on  were  already  procured, 
but  I  made  one  or  two  slight  additions  on  this  day  and 
on  Sunday  morning  when  the  Jewish  booths  opened. 
My  outfit  consisted  of  a  Russian  shirt,  black  leather 
breeches,  black  knee  boots,  a  shabby  tunic,  and  an  old 
leather  cap  with  a  fur  brim  and  a  little  tassel  on  top, 
of  the  style  worn  by  the  Finns  in  the  district  north  of 
Petrograd.  With  my  shaggy  black  beard,  which  by  now 
was  quite  profuse,  and  long  unkempt  hair  dangling  over 
my  ears  I  looked  a  sight  indeed,  and  in  England  or 
America  should  doubtless  have  been  regarded  as  a 
thoroughly  undesirable  alien! 

On  Sunday  an  officer  friend  of  Melnikoff's  came  to 
see  me  and  make  sure  I  was  ready.  I  knew  him  by 
the  Christian  name  and  patronymic  of  Ivan  Sergeie- 


ONE  OF  THE  CROWD  17 

vitch.  He  was  a  pleasant  fellow,  kind  and  consider- 
ate. Like  many  other  refugees  from  Russia  he  had  no 
financial  resources  and  was  trying  to  make  a  living 
for  himself,  his  wife,  and  his  children  by  smuggling 
Finnish  money  and  butter  into  Petrograd,  where  both 
were  sold  at  a  high  premium.  Thus  he  was  on  good 
terms  with  the  Finnish  patrols  who  also  practised  this 
trade  and  whose  friendship  he  cultivated. 

"Have  you  any  passport  yet,  Pavel  Pavlovitch?" 
Ivan  Sergeievitch  asked  me. 

"No,"  I  replied,  "Melnikoff  said  the  patrols  would 
furnish  me  with  one." 

"Yes,  that  is  best,"  he  said;  "they  have  the  Bol- 
shevist stamps.  But  we  also  collect  the  passports  of 
all  refugees  from  Petrograd,  for  they  often  come  in 
handy.  And  if  anything  happens  remember  you  are 
a  'speculator'." 

All  were  stigmatized  by  the  Bolsheviks  as  speculators 
who  indulged  in  the  private  sale  or  purchase  of  food- 
stuffs or  clothing.  They  suffered  severely,  but  it  was 
better  to  be  a  speculator  than  what  I  was. 

When  darkness  fell  Ivan  Sergeievitch  accompanied 
me  to  the  station  and  part  of  the  way  in  the  train, 
though  we  sat  separately  so  that  it  should  not  be  seen 
that  I  was  travelling  with  one  who  was  known  to  be  a 
Russian  officer. 

"And  remember,  Pavel  Pavlovitch,"  said  Ivan 
Sergeievitch,  "go  to  my  flat  whenever  you  are  in  need. 
There  is  an  old  housekeeper  there  who  will  admit  you 
if  you  say  I  sent  you.  But  do  not  let  the  house  porter 
see  you — he  is  a  Bolshevik — and  be  careful  the  house 
committee  do  not  know,  for  they  will  ask  who  is 
visiting  the  house." 


18  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

I  was  grateful  for  this  offer  which  turned  out  to  be 
very  valuable. 

We  boarded  the  train  at  Yiborg  and  sat  at  opposite 
ends  of  the  compartment,  pretending  not  to  know  each 
other.  When  Ivan  Sergeievitch  got  out  at  his  des- 
tination he  cast  one  glance  at  me  but  we  made  no  sign 
of  recognition.  I  sat  huddled  up  gloomily  in  my 
corner,  obsessed  with  the  inevitable  feeling  that 
everybody  was  watching  me.  The  very  walls  and  seats 
seemed  possessed  of  eyes!  That  man  over  there,  did 
he  not  look  at  me — twice?  And  that  woman,  spying 
constantly  (I  thought)  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye! 
They  would  let  me  get  as  far  as  the  frontier,  then  they 
would  send  word  over  to  the  Reds  that  I  was  coming! 
I  shivered  and  was  ready  to  curse  myself  for  my  fool 
adventure.  But  there  was  no  turning  back!  Forsan 
et  haec  olim  meminisse  jurabif,  wrote  Virgil.  (I  used 
to  write  that  on  my  Latin  books  at  school — I  hated 
Latin.)  "Perhaps  some  day  it  will  amuse  you  to 
remember  even  these  things" — cold  comfort,  though, 
in  a  scrape  and  with  your  neck  in  a  noose.  Yet  these 
escapades  are  amusing — afterward. 

At  last  the  train  stopped  at  Rajajoki,  the  last  station 
on  the  Finnish  side  of  the  frontier.  It  was  a  pitch- 
dark  night  with  no  moon.  Half  a  mile  remained  to 
the  frontier,  and  I  made  my  way  along  the  rails  in  the 
direction  of  Russia  and  down  to  the  wooden  bridge 
over  the  little  frontier  river  Sestro.  I  looked  curiously 
across  at  the  gloomy  buildings  and  the  dull,  twinkling 
lights  on  the  other  bank.  That  was  my  Promised  Land 
over  there,  but  it  was  flowing  not  with  milk  and  honey 
V»ut  with  blood.  The  Finnish  sentry  stood  at  his  post 
at  the  bar  of  the  frontier  bridge  and  twenty  paces 


ONE  OF  THE  CROWD  19 

away,  on  the  other  side,  was  the  Red  sentry.  I  left 
the  bridge  on  my  right  and  turned  to  look  for  the  house 
of  the  Finnish  patrols  to  whom  I  had  been  directed. 

Finding  the  little  wooden  villa  with  the  white  porch 
I  knocked  timidly.  The  door  opened,  and  I  handed  in 
the  slip  of  paper  on  which  Melnikoff  had  written  the 
password.  The  Finn  who  opened  the  door  examined 
the  paper  by  the  light  of  a  greasy  oil  lamp,  then  held 
the  lamp  to  my  face,  peered  closely  at  me,  and  finally 
signalled  to  me  to  enter. 

"Come  in,"  he  said.  "We  were  expecting  you.  How 
are  you  feeling?"  I  did  not  tell  him  howl  was  really 
feeling,  but  replied  cheerily  that  I  was  feeling  splendid. 

"That's  right,"  he  said.  "You  are  lucky  in  having 
a  dark  night  for  it.  A  week  ago  one  of  our  fellows 
was  shot  as  we  put  him  over  the  river.  His  body  fell 
into  the  water  and  we  have  not  yet  fished  it  out." 

This,  I  suppose,  was  the  Finnish  way  of  cheering  me 
up.  "Has  any  one  been  over  since?"  I  queried, 
affecting  a  tone  of  indifference.  "Only  Melnikoff." 
"Safely?"  The  Finn  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "We 
put  him  across  all  right — a  dalshe  ne  znayu  .  .  . 
what   happened    to   him   after   that   I   don't   know." 

The  Finn  was  a  lean,  cadaverous  looking  fellow. 
He  led  me  into  a  tiny  eating-room,  where  three  men 
sat  round  a  smoky  oil  lamp.  The  window  was  closely 
curtained  and  the  room  was  intolerably  stuffy.  The 
table  was  covered  with  a  filthy  cloth  on  which  a  few 
broken  lumps  of  black  bread,  some  fish,  and  a  samovar 
were  placed.  All  four  men  were  shabbily  dressed  and 
very  rough  in  appearance.  They  spoke  Russian  well, 
but  conversed  in  Finnish  amongst  themselves.  One  of 
them    said    something   to   the   cadaverous    man   and 


20  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

appeared  to  be  remonstrating  with  him  for  telling  me 
of  the  accident  that  had  happened  to  their  colleague 
a  week  before.  The  cadaverous  Finn  answered  with 
some  heat.  "Melnikoff  is  a  chuckle-headed  scatter- 
brain,"  persisted  the  cadaverous  man,  who  appeared 
to  be  the  leader  of  the  party.  "We  told  him  not  to  be 
such  a  fool  as  to  go  into  Petrograd  again.  The  Red- 
skins are  searching  for  him  everywhere  and  every  detail 
of  his  appearance  is  known.  But  he  would  go.  I 
suppose  he  loves  to  have  his  neck  in  a  noose.  With 
you,  I  suppose,  it  is  different.  Melnikoff  says  you  are 
somebody  important — but  that's  none  of  our  business. 
But  the  Redskins  don't  like  the  English.  If  I  were 
you  I  wouldn't  go  for  anything.  But  it's  your  affair, 
of  course." 

We  sat  down  to  the  loaves  and  fishes.  The  samovar 
was  boiling  and  while  we  swilled  copious  supplies  of  weak 
tea  out  of  dirty  glasses  the  Finns  retailed  the  latest 
news  from  Petrograd.  The  cost  of  bread,  they  said, 
had  risen  to  about  S00  or  1000  times  its  former  price. 
People  hacked  dead  horses  to  pieces  in  the  streets. 
All  the  warm  clothing  had  been  taken  and  given  to 
the  red  army.  The  Tchrezvichaika  (the  Extraordinary 
Commission)  was  arresting  and  shooting  workmen  as 
well  as  the  educated  people.  Zinoviev  threatened  to 
exterminate  all  the  bourgeoisie  if  any  further  attempt 
were  made  to  molest  the  Soviet  Government.  When  the 
Jewish  Commissar  Uritzky  was  murdered  Zinoviev  shot 
more  than  500  at  a  stroke;  nobles,  professors,  officers, 
journalists,  teachers,  men  and  women,  and  a  list  of 
a  further  500  was  published  who  would  be  shot  at  the 
next  attempt  on  a  Commissar's  life.  I  listened  pa- 
tiently, regarding  the  bulk  of  these  stories  as  the  product 


ONE  OF  THE  CROWD  21 

of  Finnish  imagination.  "You  will  be  held  up  fre- 
quently to  be  examined,"  the  cadaverous  man  warned 
me,  "and  do  not  carry  parcels — they  will  be  taken  from 
you  in  the  street." 

After  supper  we  sat  down  to  discuss  the  plans  of 
crossing.  The  cadaverous  Finn  took  a  pencil  and  paper 
and  drew  a  rough  sketch  of  the  frontier. 

"We  will  put  you  over  in  a  boat  at  the  same  place 
as  Melnikoff,"  he  said.  "Here  is  the  river  with  woods 
on  either  bank.  Here,  about  a  mile  up,  is  an  open 
meadow  on  the  Russian  side.  It  is  now  10  o'clock. 
About  3  we  will  go  out  quietly  and  follow  the  road  that 
skirts  the  river  on  this  side  till  we  get  opposite  the 
meadow.     That  is  where  you  will  cross." 

"Why  at  the  open  spot?"  I  queried,  surprised. 
"Shall  I  not  be  seen  there  most  easily  of  all?  Why 
not  put  me  across  into  the  woods?" 

"Because  the  woods  are  patrolled,  and  the  outposts 
change  their  place  every  night.  We  cannot  follow 
their  movements.  Several  people  have  tried  to  cross 
into  the  woods.  A  few  succeeded,  but  most  were  either 
caught  or  had  to  fight  their  way  back.  But  this 
meadow  is  a  most  unlikely  place  for  any  one  to  cross, 
so  the  Redskins  don't  watch  it.  Besides,  being  open 
we  can  see  if  there  is  any  one  on  the  other  side.  We 
will  put  you  across  just  here,"  he  said,  indicating  a 
narrow  place  in  the  stream  at  the  middle  of  the  meadow. 
"At  these  narrows  the  water  runs  faster,  making  a 
noise,  so  we  are  less  likely  to  be  heard.  When  you  get 
over  run  up  the  slope  slightly  to  the  left.  There  is  a 
path  which  leads  up  to  the  road.  Be  careful  of  this 
cottage,  though,"  he  added,  making  a  cross  on  the  paper 
at  the  extreme  northern  end  of  the  meadow.     "The 


22         RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

Red  patrol  lives  in  that  cottage,  but  at  3  o'clock  they 
will  probably  be  asleep." 

There  remained  only  the  preparation  of  "certificates 
of  identification"  which  should  serve  as  passport  in 
Soviet  Russia.  Melnikoff  had  told  me  I  might  safely 
leave  this  matter  to  the  Finns  who  kept  themselves 
well  informed  of  the  kind  of  papers  it  was  best  to  carry 
to  allay  the  suspicions  of  red  guards  and  Bolshevist 
police  officials.  We  rose  and  passed  into  another  of 
the  three  tiny  rooms  which  the  villa  contained.  It  was 
a  sort  of  office,  with  paper,  ink,  pens,  and  a  typewriter 
on  the  table. 

"What  name  do  you  want  to  have?"  asked  the  ca- 
daverous man. 

"Oh,  any,"  I  replied.  "Better,  perhaps,  let  it  have  a 
slightly  non-Russian  smack.     My  accent " 

"They  won't  notice  it,"  he  said,  "but  if  you  pre- 
fer  " 

"Give  him  an  Ukrainian  name,"  suggested  one  of 
the  other  Finns,  "he  talks  rather  like  a  Little  Russian." 
Ukrainia,  or  Little  Russia,  is  the  southwest  district 
of  European  Russia,  where  a  dialect  with  an  admixture 
of  Polish  is  talked. 

The  cadaverous  man  thought  for  a  moment. 
"'Afirenko,  Joseph  Hitch,'"  he  suggested,  "that 
smacks  of  Ukrainia." 

I  agreed.  One  of  the  men  sat  down  to  the  type- 
writer and  carefully  choosing  a  certain  sort  of  paper 
began  to  write.  The  cadaverous  man  went  to  a  small 
cupboard,  unlocked  it,  and  took  out  a  box  full  of  rubber 
stamps  of  various  sizes  and  shapes  with  black  handles. 

"Soviet  seals,"  he  said,  laughing  at  my  amazement. 
"  We  keep  ourselves  up  to  date,  you  see.     Some  of  them 


ONE  OF  THE  CROWD  23 

were  stolen,  some  we  made  ourselves,  and  this  one," 
he  pressed  it  on  a  sheet  of  paper  leaving  the  imprint 
Commissar  of  the  Frontier  Station  BieWostroj,  "we 
bought  from  over  the  river  for  a  bottle  of  vodka." 
Bielo'ostrof  was  the  Russian  frontier  village  just 
across  the  stream. 

I  had  had  ample  experience  earlier  in  the  year  of  the 
magical  effect  upon  the  rudimentary  intelligence  of  Bol- 
shevist authorities  of  official  "documents"  with  prom- 
inent seals  or  stamps.  Multitudinous  stamped  papers 
of  any  description  were  a  great  asset  in  travelling,  but 
a  big  coloured  seal  was  a  talisman  that  levelled  all  ob- 
stacles. The  wording  and  even  language  of  the  docu- 
ment were  of  secondary  importance.  A  friend  of 
mine  once  travelled  from  Petrograd  to  Moscow  with  no 
other  passport  than  a  receipted  English  tailor's  bill. 
This  "certificate  of  identification"  had  a  big  printed 
heading  with  the  name  of  the  tailor,  some  English 
postage  stamps  attached,  and  a  flourishing  signature 
in  red  ink.  He  flaunted  the  document  in  the  face  of 
the  officials,  assuring  them  it  was  a  diplomatic  passport 
issued  by  the  British  Embassy!  This,  however,  was 
in  the  early  days  of  Bolshevism.  The  Bolsheviks 
gradually  removed  illiterates  from  service  and  in  the 
course  of  time  restrictions  became  very  severe.  But 
seals  were  as  essential  as  ever. 

When  the  Finn  had  finished  writing  he  pulled  the 
paper  out  of  the  typewriter  and  handed  it  to  me  for 
perusal.  In  the  top  left-hand  corner  it  had  this  head- 
ing: 

Extraordinary  Commissar  of  the  Central  Executive  Com- 
mittee of  the  Petrograd  Soviet  of  Workers'  and  Red  Army- 
men's  Deputies. 


24  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

Then  followed  the  text: 

CERTIFICATE 

This  is  to  certify  that  Joseph  Afirenko  is  in  the  service  of 
the  Extraordinary  Commissar  of  the  Central  Executive 
Committee  of  the  Petrograd  Soviet  of  Workers'  and  Red 
Armymen's  Deputies  in  the  capacity  of  office  clerk,  as  the 
accompanying  signatures  and  seal  attest. 

"In  the  service  of  the  Extraordinary  Commission?" 
I  gasped,  taken  aback  by  the  amazing  audacity  of  the 
thing. 

"Why  not?"  said  the  cadaverous  man  coolly, 
"what  could  be  safer?" 

What,  indeed?  What  could  be  safer  than  to  purport 
to  be  in  the  service  of  the  institution  whose  duty  it 
was  to  hound  down  all — old  or  young,  rich  or  poor, 
educated  or  illiterate — who  ventured  to  oppose  and 
sought  to  expose  the  pseudo-proletarian  Bolshevist 
administration?  Nothing,  of  course,  could  be  safer! 
S  rolkami  zhitj,  po  voltchi  vitj,  as  the  Russians  say. 
"If  you  must  live  amongst  wolves,  then  howl,  too,  as  the 
wolves  do ! " 

"Now  for  the  signatures  and  seal,"  said  the  Finn. 
"Tihonov  and  Friedmann  used  to  sign  these  papers, 
though  it  don't  matter  much,  it's  only  the  seal  that 
counts."  From  some  Soviet  papers  on  the  table  he 
selected  one  with  two  signatures  from  which  to  copy. 
Choosing  a  suitable  pen  he  scrawled  beneath  the  text 
of  my  passport  in  an  almost  illegible  slanting  hand, 
"Tihonov."  This  was  the  signature  of  a  proxy  of  the 
Extraordinary  Commissar.  The  paper  must  also  be 
signed  by  a  secretary,  or  his  proxy.  "Sign  for  your 
own  secretary,"  said  the  Finn,  laughing  and  pushing 


ONE  OF  THE  CROWD  25 

the  paper  to  me.  "Write  upright  this  time,  like  this. 
Here  is  the  original.  'Friedmann'  is  the  name." 
Glancing  at  the  original  I  made  an  irregular  scrawl, 
resembling  in  some  way  the  signature  of  the  Bolshevist 
official. 

"Have  you  a  photograph?"  asked  the  cadaverous  man. 
I  gave  him  a  photograph  I  had  had  taken  at  Viborg. 
Cutting  it  down  small  he  stuck  it  at  the  side  of  the 
paper.  Then,  taking  a  round  rubber  seal,  he  made 
two  imprints  over  the  photograph.  The  seal  was  a 
red  one,  with  the  same  inscription  inside  the  periphery 
as  was  at  the.  head  of  the  paper.  The  inner  space  of 
the  seal  consisted  of  the  five-pointed  Bolshevist  star 
with  a  mallet  and  a  plow  in  the  centre. 

"That  is.  your  certificate  of  service,"  said  the  Finn, 
"we  will  give  you  a  second  one  of  personal  identifi- 
cation." Another  paper  was  quickly  printed  off  with 
the  words,  "The  holder  of  this  is  the  Soviet  employee, 
Joseph  Hitch  Afirenko,  aged  36  years."  This  paper 
was  unnecessary  in  itself,  but  two  "documents"  were 
always  better  than  one. 

It  was  now  after  midnight  and  the  leader  of  the 
Finnish  patrol  ordered  us  to  lie  down  for  a  short  rest. 
He  threw  himself  on  a  couch  in  the  eating-room. 
There  were  only  two  beds  for  the  remaining  four  of  us 
and  I  lay  down  on  one  of  them  with  one  of  the  Finns. 
I  tried  to  sleep  but  couldn't.  I  thought  of  all  sorts 
of  things — of  Russia  in  the  past,  of  the  life  of  adventure 
I  had  elected  to  lead  for  the  present,  of  the  morrow, 
of  friends  still  in  Petrograd  who  must  not  know  of  my 
return — if  I  got  there.  I  was  nervous,  but  the  dejection 
that  had  overcome  me  in  the  train  was  gone.  I  saw 
the  essential  humour  of  my  situation.    The  whole  ad- 


26         RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

venture  was  really  one  big  exclamation  mark!  Forsan 
et  haec  olim.     .     .     . 

The  two  hours  of  repose  seemed  interminable.  I 
was  afraid  of  3  o'clock  and  yet  I  wanted  it  to  come 
quicker,  to  get  it  over.  At  last  a  shuffling  noise  ap- 
proached from  the  neighbouring  room  and  the  ca- 
daverous Finn  prodded  each  of  us  with  the  butt  of 
his  rifle.  "Wake  up,"  he  whispered,  "we'll  leave  in 
a  quarter  of  an  hour.  No  noise.  The  people  in  the 
next  cottage  mustn't  hear  us." 

We  were  ready  in  a  few  minutes.  My  entire  bag- 
gage was  a  small  parcel  that  went  into  my  pocket,  con- 
taining a  pair  of  socks,  one  or  two  handkerchiefs,  and 
some  dry  biscuits.  In  another  pocket  I  had  the  medi- 
cine bottle  of  whiskey  I  had  hidden  from  Melnikoff, 
and  some  bread,  while  I  hid  my  money  inside  my  shirt. 
One  of  the  four  Finns  remained  behind.  The  other  three 
were  to  accompany  me  to  the  river.  It  was  a  raw  and 
frosty  November  night,  and  pitch-dark.  Nature  was 
still  as  death.  We  issued  silently  from  the  house,  the 
cadaverous  man  leading.  One  of  the  men  followed  up 
behind,  and  all  carried  their  rifles  ready  for  use. 

We  walked  stealthily  along  the  road  the  Finn  had 
pointed  out  to  me  on  paper  overnight,  bending  low 
where  no  trees  sheltered  us  from  the  Russian  bank.  A 
few  yards  below  on  the  right  I  heard  the  trickling 
of  the  river  stream.  We  soon  arrived  at  a  ram- 
shackle villa  standing  on  the  river  surrounded  by  trees 
and  thickets.  Here  we  stood  stock-still  for  a  moment 
to  listen  for  any  unexpected  sounds.  The  silence  was 
absolute.     But  for  the  trickling  there  was  not  a  rustle. 

We  descended  to  the  water  undercover  of  the  tumble- 
down villa  and  the  bushes.     The  stream  was  about 


ONE  OF  THE  CROWD  27 

twenty  paces  wide  at  this  point.  Along  both  banks 
there  was  an  edging  of  ice.  I  looked  across  at  the  op- 
posite side.  It  was  open  meadow,  but  the  trees  loomed 
darkly  a  hundred  paces  away  on  either  hand  in  the  back- 
ground. On  the  left  I  could  just  see  the  cottage  of 
the  Red  patrol  against  which  the  Finns  had  warned 
me. 

The  cadaverous  man  took  up  his  station  at  a  slight 
break  in  the  thickets.  A  moment  later  he  returned 
and  announced  that  all  was  well.  "Remember," 
he  enjoined  me  once  in  an  undertone,  "run  slightly 
to  the  left,  but — keep  an  eye  on  that  cottage."  He 
made  a  sign  to  the  other  two  and  from  the  bushes 
they  dragged  out  a  boat.  Working  noiselessly  they 
attached  a  long  rope  to  the  stern  and  laid  a  pole 
in  it.  Then  they  slid  it  down  the  bank  into  the 
water. 

"Get  into  the  boat,"  whispered  the  leader,  "and 
push  yourself  across  with  the  pole.     And  good  luck!" 

I  shook  hands  with  my  companions,  pulled  at  my 
little  bottle  of  whiskey,  and  got  into  the  boat.  I 
started  pushing,  but  with  the  rope  trailing  behind 
it  was  no  easy  task  to  punt  the  little  bark  straight 
across  the  running  stream.  I  was  sure  I  should  be 
heard,  and  had  amidstreams  the  sort  of  feeling  I  should 
imagine  a  man  has  as  he  walks  his  last  walk  to  the 
gallows.  At  length  I  was  at  the  farther  side,  but  it 
was  impossible  to  hold  the  boat  steady  while  I  landed. 
In  jumping  ashore  I  crashed  through  the  thin  layer 
of  ice.  I  scrambled  out  and  up  the  bank.  And 
the  boat  was  hastily  pulled  back  to  Finland  behind 
me. 

"Run  hard!"  I  heard  a  low  call  from  over  the  water. 


28         RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

Damn  it,  the  noise  of  my  splash  had  reached 
the  Red  patrol!  I  was  already  running  hard  when 
I  saw  a  light  emerge  from  the  cottage  on  the  left. 
I  forgot  the  injunctions  as  to  direction  and  simply 
bolted  away  from  that  lantern.  Halfway  across  the 
sloping  meadow  I  dropped  and  lay  still.  The  light 
moved  rapidly  along  the  river  bank.  There  was  shout- 
ing, and  then  suddenly  shots,  but  there  was  no  reply 
from  the  Finnish  side.  Then  the  light  began  to  move 
slowly  back  toward  the  cottage  of  the  Red  patrol, 
and  finally  all  was  silent  again. 

I  lay  motionless  for  some  time,  then  rose  and  pro- 
ceeded cautiously.  Having  missed  the  right  direct 
tion  I  found  I  had  to  negotiate  another  small  stream 
that  ran  obliquely  down  the  slope  of  the  meadow. 
Being  already  wet  I  did  not  suffer  by  wading  through 
it.  Then  I  reached  some  garden  fences  over  which 
I  climbed  and  found  myself  in  the  road. 

Convincing  myself  that  the  road  was  deserted  I 
crossed  it  and  came  out  on  to  the  moors  where  I  found 
a  half-built  house.  Here  I  sat  down  to  await  the  dawn 
— blessing  the  man  who  invented  whiskey,  for  I  was 
very  cold.  It  began  to  snow,  and  half-frozen  I  got 
up  to  walk  about  and  study  the  locality  as  well  as  I 
could  in  the  dark.  At  the  cross-roads  near  the  station 
I  discovered  some  soldiers  sitting  round  a  bivouac 
fire,  so  I  retreated  quickly  to  my  half-built  house  and 
waited  till  it  was  light.  Then  I  approached  the  sta- 
tion with  other  passengers.  At  the  gate  a  soldier  was 
examining  passports.  I  was  not  a  little  nervous  when 
showing  mine  for  the  first  time,  but  the  examination 
was  a  very  cursory  one.  The  soldier  seemed  only  to 
be  assuring  himself  the  paper  had  a  proper  seal.     He 


ONE  OF  THE  CROWD  29 

passed  me  through  and  I  went  to  the  ticket  office  and 
demanded  a  ticket. 

"One  first  class  to  Petrograd,"  I  said,  boldly. 

"There  is  no  first  class  by  this  train,  only  second 
and   third." 

"No  first?  Then  give  me  a  second."  I  had  asked 
the  Finns  what  class  I  ought  to  travel,  expecting 
them  to  say,  third.  But  they  replied,  First  of  course, 
for  it  would  be  strange  to  see  an  employee  of  the  Ex- 
traordinary Commission  travelling  other  than  first 
class.     Third  class  was  for  workers  and  peasants. 

The  journey  to  Petrograd  was  about  twenty-five 
miles,  and  stopping  at  every  station  the  train  took 
nearly  two  hours.  As  we  approached  the  city  the 
coaches  filled  up  until  people  were  standing  in  the 
aisles  and  on  the  platforms.  There  was  a  crush  on 
the  Finland  Station  at  which  we  arrived.  The  ex- 
amination of  papers  was  again  merely  cursory.  I 
pushed  out  with  the  throng  and  looking  around  me 
on  the  dirty,  rubbish-strewn  station  I  felt  a  curious 
mixture  of  relief  and  apprehension.  A  flood  of  strange 
thoughts  and  recollections  rushed  through  my  mind. 
I  saw  my  whole  life  in  a  new  and  hitherto  undreamt-of 
perspective.  Days  of  wandering  in  Europe,  student 
days  in  Russia,  life  amongst  the  Russian  peasantry, 
and  three  years  of  apparently  aimless  war  work 
all  at  once  assumed  symmetrical  proportions  and 
appeared  like  the  sides  of  a  prism  leading  to  a  com- 
mon apex  at  which  I  stood.  Yes,  my  life,  I  suddenly 
realized,  had  had  an  aim — it  was  to  stand  here  on  the 
threshold  of  the  city  that  was  my  home,  homeless, 
helpless,  and  friendless,  one  of  the  common  crowd. 
That  was  it — one  of  the  common  crowd!    I  wanted  not 


SO  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

the  theories  of  theorists,  nor  the  doctrines  of  doc- 
trinaires, but  to  see  what  the  greatest  social  experi- 
ment the  world  has  ever  witnessed  did  for  the  common 
crowd.  And  strangely  buoyant,  I  stepped  lightly  out 
of  the  station  into  the  familiar  streets. 


CHAPTER  II 

FIVE   DAYS 

One  of  the  first  things  that  caught  my  eye  as  I 
emerged  from  the  station  was  an  old  man,  standing 
with  his  face  to  the  wall  of  a  house,  leaning  against  a 
protruding  gutter-pipe.  As  I  passed  him  I  noticed  he 
was  sobbing.     I  stopped  to  speak  to  him. 

"What  is  the  matter,  little  uncle?"  I  said. 

"I  am  cold  and  hungry,"  he  whimpered  without 
looking  up  and  still  leaning  against  the  pipe.  "For 
three  days  I  have  eaten  nothing."  I  pushed  a  twenty- 
rouble  note  into  his  hand.     "Here,  take  this,"  I  said. 

He  took  the  money  but  looked  at  me,  puzzled. 
"Thank  you,"  he  mumbled,  "but  what  is  the  good  of 
money?  Where  shall  I  get  bread?"  So  I  gave  him 
a  piece  of  mine  and  passed  on. 

There  was  plenty  of  life  and  movement  in  the  streets, 
though  only  of  foot-passengers.  The  roadway  was 
dirty  and  strewn  with  litter.  Strung  across  the  street 
from  house  to  house  were  the  shreds  of  washed-out  red 
flags,  with  inscriptions  that  showed  they  had  been  hung 
out  to  celebrate  the  anniversary  of  the  Bolshevist 
coup  d'etat  a  few  weeks  earlier.  Occasionally  one 
came  across  small  groups  of  people,  evidently  of  the 
educated  class,  ladies  and  elderly  gentlemen  in  worn- 
out  clothes,  shovelling  away  the  early  snow  and  slush 
under  the  supervision  of  a  workman,  who  as  taskmaster 
stood  still  and  did  nothing. 

81 


32         RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

Crossing  the  Liteiny  Bridge  on  my  way  into  the  city 
I  stopped,  as  was  my  wont,  to  contemplate  the  marvel- 
lous view  of  the  river  Neva.  No  capital  in  Europe 
possesses  so  beautiful  an  expanse  of  water  as  this  city 
of  Peter  the  Great.  Away  on  the  horizon  the  slender 
gilded  spire  of  the  cathedral  of  St.  Peter  and  St. 
Paul  rose  from  the  gloomy  fortress.  By  force  of  habit 
I  wondered  who  was  now  incarcerated  in  those  dark 
dungeons.  Years  ago,  before  the  revolution,  I  used 
to  stand  and  look  at  the  "Petropavlovka,"  as  the  for- 
tress is  popularly  called,  thinking  of  those  who  pined 
in  its  subterranean  cells  for  seeking  the  liberty  of  the 
Russian  people. 

My  first  destination  was  the  house  of  an  English 
gentleman,  to  whom  I  shall  refer  as  Mr.  Marsh.  Marsh 
was  a  prominent  business  man  in  Petrograd.  I  did 
not  know  him  personally,  but  he  had  been  a  friend  of 
Captain  Crombie  and  until  recently  was  known  to  be 
at  liberty.  He  lived  on  the  quay  of  the  Fontanka,  a 
long,  straggling  branch  of  the  Neva  flowing  through 
the  heart  of  the  city.  Melnikoff  knew  Marsh  and  had 
promised  to  prepare  him  for  my  coming.  I  found  the 
house  and,  after  assuring  myself  the  street  was  clear  and 
I  was  not  observed,  I  entered.  In  the  hall  I  was  con- 
fronted by  an  individual,  who  might  or  might  not  have 
been  the  house-porter — I  could  not  tell.  But  I  saw  at 
once  that  this  man  was  not  disposed  to  be  friendly.  He 
let  me  in,  closed  the  door  behind  me,  and  promptly 
placed  himself  in  front  of  it. 

"Whom  do  you  want?"  he  asked. 

"I  want  Mr.  Marsh,"  I  said.  "Can  you  tell 
me  the  number  of  his  flat?"  I  knew  the  number 
perfectly  well,  but  I  could  see  from  the  man's  mam 


FIVE  DAYS  33 

iier  that  the  less  I  knew  about  Marsh,  the  better  for 
me. 

"Marsh  is  in  prison,"  replied  the  man,  "and  his 
flat  is  sealed  up.     Do  you  know  him?" 

Devil  take  it,  I  thought,  I  suppose  I  shall  be  arrested, 
too,  to  see  what  I  came  here  for!  The  idea  occurred 
to  me  for  a  moment  to  flaunt  my  concocted  passport 
in  his  face  and  make  myself  out  to  be  an  agent  of  the 
Extraordinary  Commission,  but  as  such  I  should 
have  known  of  Marsh's  arrest,  and  I  should  still 
have  to  explain  the  reason  of  my  visit.  It  wouldn't  do. 
I  thought  rapidly  for  a  plausible  pretext. 

"No,  I  don't  know  him,"  I  replied.  "I  have  never 
seen  him  in  my  life.  I  was  sent  to  give  him  this 
little  parcel."  I  held  up  the  packet  containing  my 
trousseau  of  socks,  biscuits,  and  handkerchiefs.  "He 
left  this  in  a  house  at  Alexandrovsky  the  other  night. 
I  am  an  office  clerk  there.     I  will  take  it  back." 

The  man  eyed  me  closely.  "You  do  not  know  Mr. 
Marsh?"  he  said  again,  slowly. 

"I  have  never  seen  him  in  my  life,"  I  repeated, 
emphatically,  edging  nearer  the  door. 

"You  had  better  leave  the  parcel,  however,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  yes,  certainly,"  I  agreed  with  alacrity,  fear- 
ful at  the  same  time  lest  my  relief  at  this  conclusion 
to  the  incident  should  be  too  noticeable. 

I  handed  him  over  my  parcel.  "Good-morning," 
I  said  civilly,  "I  will  say  that  Mr.  Marsh  is  arrested." 
The  man  moved  away  from  the  door,  still  looking  hard 
at  me  as  I  passed  out  into  the  street. 

Agitated  by  this  misfortune,  I  turned  my  steps  in  the 
direction  of  the  hospital  where  I  hoped  to  find  Meln- 
ikoff.     The  hospital  in  question  was  at  the  extreme 


34  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

end  of  the  Kamenostrovsky  Prospect,  in  the  part  of 
the  city  known  as  The  Islands  because  it  forms  the 
delta  of  the  river  Neva.  It  was  a  good  four-mile 
walk  from  Marsh's  house.  I  tried  to  get  on  to  a  street- 
car, but  there  were  very  few  running  and  they  were  so 
crowded  that  it  was  impossible  to  board  them.  People 
hung  in  bunches  all  round  the  steps  and  even  on  the 
buffers.  So,  tired  as  I  was  after  the  night's  adven- 
ture, I  footed  it. 

Melnikoff,  it  appeared,  was  a  relative  of  one  of  the 
doctors  of  this  hospital,  but  I  did  not  find  him  here.  The 
old  woman  at  the  lodge  said  he  had  been  there  one 
night  and  not  returned  since.  I  began  to  think  some- 
thing untoward  must  have  occurred,  although  doubt- 
less he  had  several  other  night-shelters  besides  this 
one.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait  for  the  after- 
noon and  go  to  the  clandestine  cafe  to  which  he  had 
directed  me. 

I  retraced  my  steps  slowly  into  town.  All  around 
was  shabbiness.  Here  and  there  in  the  roadway  lay 
a  dead  horse.  The  wretched  brutes  were  whipped  to 
get  the  last  spark  of  life  and  labour  out  of  them 
and  then  lay  where  they  fell,  for  the  ladies  who  were 
made  to  sweep  the  streets  were  not  strong  enough  to 
remove  dead  horses.  Every  street,  every  building, 
shop,  and  porch  spoke  to  me  of  bygone  associations, 
which  with  a  pang  I  now  realized  were  dead.  A  few 
stores  remained  open,  notably  of  music,  books,  and 
flowers,  but  Soviet  licenses  were  required  to  purchase 
anything,  except  propagandist  literature,  which  was 
sold  freely  at  a  cheap  price,  and  flowers,  which  were 
fabulously  dear.  Hawkers  with  trucks  disposed  of 
second-hand  books,  obviously  removed  from  the  shelves 


FIVE  DAYS  35 

of  private  libraries,  while  a  tiny  basement  store,  here 
and  there  peeping  shamefacedly  up  from  beneath  the 
level  of  the  street,  secreted  in  semi-obscurity  an  un- 
appetizing display  of  rotting  vegetables  or  fruits  and 
the  remnants  of  biscuits  and  canned  goods.  But  every- 
thing spoke  bitterly  of  the  progressive  dearth  of  things 
and  the  increasing  stagnation  of  normal  life. 

I  stopped  to  read  the  multifarious  public  notices 
and  announcements  on  the  walls.  Some  bore  reference 
to  Red  army  mobilization,  others  to  compulsory  labour 
for  the  bourgeoisie,  but  most  of  them  dealt  with 
the  distribution  of  food.  I  bought  some  seedy-looking 
apples,  and  crackers  that  tasted  several  years  old.  I 
also  bought  all  the  newspapers  and  a  number  of  pamph- 
lets by  Lenin,  Zinoviev,  and  others.  Finding  a  cab 
with  its  horse  still  on  four  legs,  I  hired  it  and  drove  to 
the  Finland  Station,  where  upon  arrival  in  the  morning 
I  had  noticed  there  was  a  buffet.  The  condiments 
exhibited  on  the  counter,  mostly  bits  of  herring  on 
microscopic  pieces  of  black  bread,  were  still  less  ap- 
petizing than  my  crackers,  so  I  just  sat  down  to  rest, 
drank  a  weak  liquid  made  of  tea-substitute,  and  read 
the  Soviet  papers. 

There  was  not  much  of  news,  for  the  ruling  Bol- 
shevist* class  had  already  secured  a  monopoly  of  the 
press  by  closing  down  all  journals  expressing  contrary 
opinions,  so  that  all  that  was  printed  was  propaganda. 
While  the  press  of  the  Western  world  was  full  of  talk 
of  peace,   the   Soviet   journals  were   insisting  on  the 


*In  March,  1918,  the  Bolsheviks  changed  their  official  title  from  "Bol- 
shevist Party"  to  that  of  "Communist  Party  of  Bolsheviks."  Throughout 
this  book,  therefore,  the  words  Bolshevik  and  Communist  are  employed,  as 
in  Russia,  as  interchangeable  terms. 


36         RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

creation  of  a  mighty  Red  army  that  should  set  Europe 
and  the  globe  aflame  with  world-revolution. 

At  three  o'clock  I  set  out  to  look  for  Melnikoff's 
cafe,  a  clandestine  establishment  in  a  private  flat  on 
the  top  floor  of  a  house  in  one  of  the  streets  off  the 
Nevsky  Prospect.  When  I  rang  the  bell  the  door 
was  opened  just  a  wee  bit  and  I  espied  a  keen  and  sus- 
picious eye  through  the  chink.  Seeing  it  was  immedi- 
ately about  to  close  again  I  slid  one  foot  into  the 
aperture  and  asked  quickly  for  Melnikoff. 

"Melnikoff?"  said  the  voice  accompanying  the  eagle 
eye.   "What  Melnikoff?" 

"N ,"    I    said,    giving    Melnikoff's    real    name. 

At  this  point  the  door  was  opened  a  little  wider  and  I 
was  confronted  by  two  ladies,  the  one  (with  the  eagle 
eye)  elderly  and  plump,  the  other  young  and  good- 
looking. 

"What  is  his  first  name  and  patronymic?"  asked  the 
younger  lady.  "Nicolas  Nicolaevitch,"  I  replied. 
"It  is  all  right,"  said  the  younger  lady  to  the  elder. 
"He  said  someone  might  be  coining  to  meet  him  this 
afternoon.  Come  in,"  she  went  on,  to  me.  "Nicolas 
Nicolaevitch  was  here  for  a  moment  on  Saturday  and 
said  he  would  be  here  yesterday  but  did  not  come.  I 
expect  him  any  minute  now." 

I  passed  into  a  sitting  room  fitted  with  small  tables, 
where  the  fair  young  lady,  Vera  Alexandrovna,  served 
me  to  my  surprise  with  delicious  little  cakes  which 
would  have  graced  any  Western  tea-table.  The  room 
was  empty  when  I  arrived,  but  later  about  a  dozen 
people  came  in,  all  of  distinctly  bourgeois  stamp,  some 
prepossessing  in  appearance,  others  less  so.  A  few  of 
the  young  men  looked  like  ex-officers  of  dubious  type. 


FIVE  DAYS  37 

They  laughed  loudly,  talked  in  raucous  voices,  and 
seemed  to  have  plenty  of  money  to  spend,  for  the 
delicacies  were  extremely  expensive.  This  cafe,  I 
learned  later,  was  a  meeting-place  for  conspirators, 
who  were  said  to  have  received  funds  for  counter- 
revolutionary purposes  from  representatives  of  the 
allies. 

Vera  Alexandrovna  came  over  to  the  table  in  the 
corner  where  I  sat  alone.  "I  must  apologize,"  she 
said,  placing  a  cup  on  the  table,  "for  not  giving  you 
chocolate.  I  ran  out  of  chocolate  last  week.  This  is 
the  best  I  can  do  for  you.  It  is  a  mixture  of  cocoa  and 
coffee — an  invention  of  my  own  in  these  hard  times." 
I  tasted  it  and  found  it  very  nice. 

Vera  Alexandrovna  was  a  charming  girl  of  about 
twenty  summers,  and  with  my  uncouth  get-up  and  gen- 
eral aspect  I  felt  I  was  a  bad  misfit  in  her  company. 
I  was  painfully  conscious  of  attracting  attention  and 
apologized  for  my  appearance. 

"Don't  excuse  yourself,"  replied  Vera  Alexandrovna, 
"we  all  look  shabby  nowadays."  (She  herself,  how- 
ever, was  very  trim.)  "Nicolas  Nicolaevitch  told  me 
you  were  coming  and  that  you  were  a  friend  of  his — 
but  I  shall  ask  no  questions.  You  may  feel  yourself 
quite  safe  and  at  home  here  and  nobody  will  notice 
you."  (But  I  saw  four  of  the  loud-voiced  young 
officers  at  the  next  table  looking  at  me  very  hard.) 

"I  scarcely  expected  to  find  these  comforts  in  hungry 
Petrograd,"  I  said  to  Vera  Alexandrovna.  "May 
I  ask  how  you  manage  to  keep  your  cafe?" 

"Oh,  it  is  becoming  very  difficult  indeed,"  complained 
Vera  Alexandrovna.  "We  have  two  servants  whom  we 
send  twice  a  week  into  the  villages  to  bring  back  flour 


38  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

and  milk,  and  we  buy  sugar  from  the  Jews  in  the  Jew  tsfa 
market.  But  it  is  getting  so  hard.  We  do  not  know 
if  we  shall  be  able  to  keep  it  going  much  longer.  Then, 
too,  we  may  be  discovered.  Twice  the  Reds  have 
been  to  ask  if  suspicious  people  live  in  this  house, 
but  the  porter  put  them  off  because  we  give  him 
flour." 

Vera  Alexandrovna  rose  to  attend  to  other  guests. 
I  felt  extremely  ill  at  ease,  for  it  was  clear  I  was  at- 
tracting attention  and  I  did  not  at  all  like  the  looks  of 
some  of  the  people  present. 

"Ah,  ma  chere  Vera  Alexandrovna ! "  exclaimed  a 
fat  gentleman  in  spectacles  who  had  just  come  in, 
kissing  her  hand  effusively.  "Here  we  are  again! 
Well,  our  Redskins  haven't  long  to  last  now,  I'll  be 
bound.  The  latest  is  that  they  are  going  to  mobilize. 
Mobilize,  indeed!  Just  a  little  push  from  outside,  and 
pouf !  up  they'll  go  like  a  bubble  bursting!" 

At  once  one  of  the  four  young  men  rose  from  the 
next  table  and  approached  me.  He  was  tall  and  thin, 
with  sunken  eyes,  hair  brushed  straight  up,  and  a 
black  moustache.  There  was  a  curious  crooked  twitch 
about  his  mouth. 

"Good  afternoon,"  he  said.  "Allow  me  to  introduce 
myself.  Captain  Zorinsky.  You  are  waiting  for 
Melnikoff,  are  you  not?     I  am  a  friend  of  his." 

I  shook  hands  with  Zorinsky,  but  gave  him  no  en- 
couragement to  talk.  Why  had  Melnikoff  not  told 
me  I  should  meet  this  "friend  of  his"?  Had  this  Zo- 
rinsky merely  guessed  I  was  waiting  for  Melnikoff, 
or  had  Vera  Alexandrovna  told  him — Vera  Alex- 
androvna, who  assured  me  no  one  would  notice  me? 

"Melnikoff  did  not  come  here  yesterday,"  Zorinsky 


FIVE  DAYS  39 

continued,  "but  if  I  can  do  anything  for  you  at  any 
time  I  shall  be  glad." 

I  bowed  and  he  returned  to  his  table.  Since  it  was 
already  six  I  resolved  I  would  stay  in  this  cafe  no  longer. 
The  atmosphere  of  the  place  filled  me  with  indefinable 
apprehension. 

"lam  so  sorry  you  have  missed  Nicolas  Nieolaevitch," 
said  Vera  Alexandrovna  as  I  took  my  leave.  "Will 
you  come  in  to-morrow?"  I  said  I  would,  fully  deter- 
mined that  I  would  not.  "Come  back  at  any  time," 
said  Vera  Alexandrovna,  with  her  pleasant  smile;  "and 
remember,"  she  added,  reassuringly,  in  an  undertone, 
"here  you  are  perfectly  safe." 

Could  anybody  be  more  charming  than  Vera  Alex- 
androvna? Birth,  education,  and  refinement  were  man- 
ifested in  every  gesture.  But  as  for  her  cafe,  I  had 
an  ominous  presentiment,  and  nothing  would  have  in- 
duced me  to  reenter  it. 

I  resolved  to  resort  to  the  flat  of  Ivan  Sergeievitch, 
Melnikoff's  friend  who  had  seen  me  off  at  Viborg. 
The  streets  were  bathed  in  gloom  as  I  emerged  from  the 
cafe.  Lamps  burned  only  at  rare  intervals.  And 
suppose,  I  speculated,  I  find  no  one  at  Ivan  Sergeie- 
vitch's  home?  What  would  offer  a  night's  shelter — a 
porch,  here  or  there,  a  garden,  a  shed?  Perhaps  one 
of  the  cathedrals,  Kazan,  for  instance,  might  be  open. 
Ah,  look,  there  was  a  hoarding  round  one  side  of  the 
Kazan  Cathedral!  I  stepped  up  and  peeped  inside. 
Lumber  and  rubbish.  Yes,  I  decided,  that  would  do 
splendidly ! 

Ivan  Sergeievitch's  house  was  in  a  small  street  at 
the  end  of  Kazanskaya,  and  like  Vera  Alexandrovna's 
his  flat  was  on  the  top  floor.     My  experience  of  the 


40  RED  DUSK  AXD  THE  MORROW 

morning  had  made  me  very  cautious,  and  I  was  care- 
ful to  enter  the  house  as  though  I  were  making  a 
mistake,  the  easier  to  effect  an  escape  if  necessary. 
But  the  house  was  as  still  as  death.  I  met  nobody  on 
the  stairs,  and  for  a  long  time  there  was  no  reply  to 
my  ring.  I  was  just  beginning  to  think  seriously  of 
the  hoarding  round  the  Kazan  Cathedral  when  I 
heard  footsteps,  and  a  female  voice  said  querulously 
behind  the  door,   "Who  is  there?" 

"From  Ivan  Sergeievitch,"  I  replied,  speaking  just 
loud  enough  to  be  heard  through  the  door. 

There  was  a  pause.  "From  which  Ivan  Sergeievitch?  " 
queried  the  voice. 

I  lowered  my  tone.  I  felt  the  other  person  was 
listening  intently.  "From  your  Ivan  Sergeievitch, 
in  Viborg,"  I  said  in  a  low  voice  at  the  keyhole. 

There  was  another  pause.  "But  who  are  you?" 
came  the  query. 

"Do  not  be  alarmed,"  I  said  in  the  same  tone. 
"I  have  a  message  to  you  from  him." 

The  footsteps  receded.  I  could  hear  voices  con- 
ferring. Then  two  locks  were  undone,  and  the  door 
was  partially  opened  on  a  short  chain.  I  saw  a  middle- 
aged  woman  peering  at  me  with  fear  and  suspicion 
through    the   chink. 

I  repeated  what  I  had  already  said,  adding  in  a 
whisper  that  I  myself  had  just  come  from  Finland 
and  would  perhaps  be  going  back  shortly.  The  chain 
was  then  removed  and  I  passed  in. 

The  woman  who  opened  the  door,  and  who  proved 
tu  be  the  housekeeper  spoken  of  by  Ivan  Sergeievitch, 
closed  it  again  hastily,  locked  it  securely,  and  stood 
before   me,   a    trembling   little   figure   with   keen   eyes 


FIVE  DAYS  41 

that  looked  me  up  and  down  with  uncertainty.  A  few 
paces  away  stood  a  girl,  the  nurse  of  Ivan  Sergeievitch's 
children  who  were  in  Finland. 

"Ivan  Sergeievitch  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,"  I 
said,  not  truthfully,  but  very  anxious  to  calm  the 
suspicions  of  my  humble  hostesses.  "I  knew  him 
long  ago  and  saw  him  again  quite  recently  in  Finland. 
He  asked  me,  if  I  found  it  possible,  to  come  round  and 
see  you." 

"Come  in,  come  in,  please,"  said  the  housekeeper, 
whom  I  shall  call  Stepanovna,  still  very  nervously. 
"Excuse  our  showing  you  into  the  kitchen,  but  it  is 
the  only  room  we  have  warmed.  It  is  so  difficult  to 
get  firewood  nowadays." 

I  sat  down  in  the  kitchen,  feeling  very  tired.  "Ivan 
Sergeievitch  is  well  and  sends  his  greetings,"  I  said. 
"So  are  his  wife  and  the  children.  They  hope  you 
are  well  and  not  suffering.  They  would  like  you  to 
join  them  but  it  is  impossible  to  get  passports." 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,"  said  Stepanovna.  "I 
am  glad  they  are  well.  We  have  not  heard  from  them 
for  so  long.     May  we  offer  you  something  to  eat — ?" 

"Ivan  Pavlovitch  is  my  name,"  I  interpolated, 
catching  her  hesitation. 

"May  we  offer  you  something  to  eat,  Ivan  Pavlo- 
vitch?" said  Stepanovna  kindly,  busying  herself  at 
the  stove.  Her  hands  still  trembled.  "Thank  you," 
I  said,  "but  I  am  afraid  you  have  not  much  yourself." 

"We  are  going  to  have  some  soup  for  supper,"  she 
replied.     "There  will  be  enough  for  you,  too." 

Stepanovna  left  the  kitchen  for  a  moment,  and  the 
nursing  maid,  whose  name  was  Varia,  leaned  over  to 
me  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  "Stepanovna  is  frightened 


42         RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

to-day.  She  nearly  got  arrested  this  morning  at  the 
market  when  the  Reds  came  and  took  people  buying 
and  selling  food." 

I  saw  from  Varia's  manner  that  she  was  a  self-pos- 
sessed and  intelligent  girl  and  I  resolved  to  speak  to 
her  first  regarding  my  staying  the  night,  lest  I  terrified 
Stepanovna  by  the  suggestion. 

"When  I  went  to  my  home  this  afternoon,"  I  said, 
"I  found  it  locked.  I  expect  the  housekeeper  was  out. 
It  is  very  far,  and  I  wonder  if  I  may  stay  the  night 
here.  A  sofa  will  do  to  lie  on,  or  even  the  floor.  I  am 
dreadfully  tired  and  my  leg  is  aching  from  an  old 
wound.  Ivan  Sergeievitch  said  I  might  use  his  flat 
whenever  I  liked." 

"I  will  ask  Stepanovna,"  said  Varia.  "I  do  not 
think  she  will  mind."  Varia  left  the  room  and,  re- 
turning, said  Stepanovna  agreed — for  one  night. 

The  soup  was  soon  ready.  It  was  cabbage  soup,  and 
very  good.  I  ate  two  big  platefuls  of  it,  though 
conscience  piqued  me  in  accepting  a  second.  But  I 
was  very  hungry.  During  supper  a  man  in  soldier's 
uniform  came  in  by  the  kitchen  door  and  sat  down 
on  a  box  against  the  wall.  He  said  nothing  at  all, 
but  he  had  a  good-natured,  round,  plump  face,  with 
rosy  cheeks  and  twinkling  eyes.  With  a  jack-knife 
he  hewed  square  chunks  off  a  loaf  of  black  bread,  one  of 
which  chunks  was  handed  to  me. 

"This  is  my  nephew  Dmitri,"  said  Stepanovna. 
"He  has  just  become  a  volunteer  so  as  to  get  Red 
army  rations,  so  we  are  better  off  now." 

Dmitri  smiled  at  being  mentioned,  but  said  nothing. 
After  two  platefuls  of  soup  I  could  scarcely  keep  my 
eyes  open.     So  I  asked  where  I  might  spend  the  night 


FIVE  DAYS  43 

and  was  shown  into  the  study,  where  I  threw  myself 
on  the  couch  and  fell  fast  asleep. 

When  I  awoke  I  had  such  a  strange  sensation  of 
unaccustomed  surroundings  that  I  was  completely 
bewildered,  and  was  only  brought  to  my  senses  by 
Varia  entering  with  a  glass  of  tea — real  tea,  from 
Dmitri's  Red   rations. 

Then  I  recalled  the  previous  day,  my  adventurous 
passage  across  the  frontier,  the  search  for  Marsh  and 
Melnikoff,  the  secret  cafe,  and  my  meeting  with  my 
present  humble  friends.  With  disconcerting  brusque- 
ness  I  also  recollected  that  I  had  as  yet  no  prospects 
for  the  ensuing  night.  But  I  persuaded  myself  that 
much  might  happen  before  nightfall  and  tried  to 
think  no  more  about  it. 

Stepanovna  had  quite  got  over  her  fright,  and  when 
I  came  into  the  kitchen  to  wash  and  drink  another 
glass  of  tea  she  greeted  me  kindly.  Dmitri  sat  on 
his  box  in  stolid  silence,  munching  a  crust  of  bread. 

"Been  in  the  Red  army  long?"  I  asked  him,  by 
way  of  conversation. 

"Three  weeks,"  he  replied. 

"Well,  and  do  you  like  it?" 

Dmitri  pouted  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  dispar- 
agingly. 

"Do  you  have  to  do  much  service?"  I  persisted. 

"Done  none  yet." 

"No  drill?" 

"None." 

"No  marching?" 

"None." 

Sounds  easy,  I  thought.     "What  do  you  do?" 

"I  draw  rations." 


44         RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

"So  I  see,"  I  observed. 

Conversation  flagged.  Dmitri  helped  himself  to 
more  tea  and  Stepanovna  questioned  me  further  as 
to  how  Ivan  Sergeievitch  was  doing. 

"What  were  you  in  the  old  army?"  I  continued 
at  the  first  opportunity  to  Dmitri. 

"An  orderly." 

"What  are  you  now?" 

"A  driver." 

"Who  are  your  officers?" 

"WTe  have  a  commissar."  A  commissar  in  the  army 
is  a  Bolshevist  official  attached  to  a  regiment  to  super- 
vise the  actions  of  the  officer  staff. 

"Who  is  he?" 

"WTio  knows?"  replied  Dmitri.  "He  is  one  like 
the  rest,"  he  added,  as  if  all  commissars  were  of  an 
inferior  race. 

"What  is  the  Red  army?"  I  asked,  finally. 

"Who  knows?"  replied  Dmitri,  as  if  it  were  the 
last  thing  in  the  world  to  interest  any  one. 

Dmitri  typified  the  mass  of  the  unthinking  prole- 
tariat at  this  time,  regarding  the  Bolshevist  Govern- 
ment as  an  accidental,  inexplicable,  and  merely  tempo- 
rary phenomenon  which  was  destined  at  an  early  date 
to  decay  and  disappear.  As  for  the  thinking  prole- 
tariat they  were  rapidly  dividing  into  two  camps,  the 
minority  siding  with  the  Bolsheviks  for  privilege  and 
power,  the  majority  becoming  increasingly  discontented 
with  the  suppression  of  liberties  won  by  the  revolution. 

"Have  you  a  Committee  of  the  Poor  in  this  house?" 
I  asked  Stepanovna.  "Yes,"  she  said,  and  turning 
to  Dmitri  added,  "Mind,  Mitka,  you  say  nothing 
to  them  of  Ivan  Pavlovitch." 


FIVE  DAYS  45 

Stepanovna  told  me  the  committee  was  formed  of 
three  servant  girls,  the  yard-keeper,  and  the  house- 
porter.  The  entire  house  with  forty  flats  was  under 
their  administration.  "From  time  to  time,"  said 
Stepanovna,  "they  come  and  take  some  furniture  to 
decorate  the  apartments  they  have  occupied  on  the 
ground  floor.  That  is  all  they  seem  to  think  of.  The 
house-porter  is  never  in  his  place  in  the  hall"  (for 
this  I  was  profoundly  thankful),  "and  when  we  need 
him  we  can  never  find  him." 

Varia  accompanied  me  to  the  door  as  I  departed. 
"If  you  want  to  come  back,"  she  said,  "I  don't  think 
Stepanovna  will  mind."  I  insisted  on  paying  for 
the  food  I  had  eaten  and  set  out  to  look  again  for 
Melnikoff. 

The  morning  was  raw  and  snow  began  to  fall. 
People  hurried  along  the  streets  huddling  bundles 
and  small  parcels.  Queues,  mostly  of  working  women, 
were  waiting  outside  small  stores  with  notices  printed 
on  canvas  over  the  lintel  "First  Communal  Booth," 
"Second  Communal  Booth,"  and  so  on,  where  bread 
was  being  distributed  in  small  quantities  against 
food  cards.  There  was  rarely  enough  to  go  round,  so 
people  came  and  stood  early,  shivering  in  the  biting 
wind.  Similar  queues  formed  later  in  the  day  outside 
larger  establishments  marked  "Communal  Eating 
House,  Number  so-and-so."  One  caught  snatches  of 
conversation  from  these  queues.  "Why  don't  the 
'comrades'  have  to  stand  in  queues?"  a  woman  would 
exclaim  indignantly.  "Where  are  all  the  Jews?  Does 
Trotsky  stand  in  a  queue?"  and  so  on.  Then,  re- 
ceiving their  modicum  of  bread,  they  would  carry 
it  hastily  away,  either  in  their  bare  hands,  or  wrapped 


46  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

up  in  paper  brought  for  the  purpose,  or  shielded  under 
the  shawls  which  they  muffled  round  their  ears  and 
neck. 

Again  I  tracked  across  the  river  and  up  the  long 
Kamenostrovsky  Prospect  to  Melnikoff's  hospital, 
but  again  he  had  not  returned  and  they  knew  nothing 
of  him.  Wandering  irresolutely  about  the  city  I 
drifted  into  the  district  where  I  had  formerly  lived, 
and  here  in  a  side-street  I  came  unexpectedly  upon 
a  window  on  which  a  slip  of  paper  was  pasted  with 
the  word  "Dinners,"  written  in  pencil.  This,  I 
could  see,  was  no  "communal  eating-house."  With- 
out a  ticket  I  could  not  go  to  a  communal  eating- 
house,  so  I  peered  cautiously  into  the  door  of  the  little 
establishment  and  found  that  a  single  room  on  the 
ground  floor,  probably  once  a  store,  had  been  cleared 
out  and  fitted  with  three  tiny  tables,  large  enough 
to  accommodate  half  a  dozen  people  in  all.  Every- 
thing was  very  simple,  clearly  a  temporary  arrange- 
ment but  very  clean.  The  room  being  empty,  I 
entered. 

"Dinner?"  queried  a  young  lady,  appearing  from 
behind  a  curtain.  "Yes,  please."  "Will  you  sit 
down  a  moment?"  she  said.  "It  is  rather  early,  but 
it  will  be  ready  soon." 

Presently  she  brought  a  plate  of  gruel,  small  in 
quantity  but  good.  "Bread,  I  am  afraid,  is  extra," 
she  observed  when  I  asked  for  it.  "Can  I  get  dinner 
here  every  day?"  I  enquired.  "As  long  as  they  do 
not  close  us  down,"  she  replied  with  a  shrug.  I  drew 
her  into  conversation.  "We  have  been  here  a  week," 
she  explained.  "People  come  in  who  have  no  food 
cards  or  who  want  something  better  than  the  communal 


FIVE  DAYS  47 

eating-houses.  My  father  used  to  keep  a  big  restau- 
rant in  Sadovaya  Street  and  when  the  Bolsheviks  shut 
it  he  went  into  a  smaller  one  in  the  backyard.  When 
that  was  closed,  too,  we  moved  in  here,  where  one  of 
father's  cooks  used  to  live.  We  cannot  put  up  a  sign, 
that  would  attract  attention,  but  you  can  come  as 
long  as  the  paper  is  in  the  window.  If  it  is  not  there, 
do  not  enter;  it  will  mean  the  Reds  are  in  possession." 

For  second  course  she  brought  carrots.  Three 
other  people  came  in  during  the  meal  and  I  saw  at 
once  that  they  were  persons  of  education  and  good 
station,  though  they  all  looked  haggard  and  worn. 
All  ate  their  small  portions  with  avidity,  counting  out 
their  payment  with  pitiful  reluctance.  One  of  them 
looked  a  typical  professor,  and  of  the  others,  both 
ladies,  I  guessed  one  might  be  a  teacher.  Though 
we  sat  close  to  each  other  there  was  no  conversation. 

Purchasing  three  small  white  loaves  to  take  with  me 
I  returned  in  the  afternoon  to  Stepanovna's.  My 
humble  friends  were  delighted  at  this  simple  contri- 
bution to  the  family  fare,  for  they  did  not  know  white 
bread  was  still  procurable.  I  telephoned  to  Vera 
Alexandrovna,  using  a  number  she  had  given  me,  but 
Melnikoff  was  not  there  and  nothing  was  known  of  him. 

So  with  Stepanovna's  consent  to  stay  another  night 
I  sat  in  the  kitchen  sipping  Dmitri's  tea  and  listening 
to  their  talk.  Stepanovna  and  Varia  unburdened 
their  hearts  without  restraint,  and  somehow  it  was 
strange  to  hear  them  abusing  their  house  committee, 
or  committee  of  the  poor,  as  it  was  also  called,  com- 
posed of  people  of  their  own  station.  "Commissars" 
and  "Communists"  they  frankly  classed  as  svolotch, 
which  is  a  Russian  term  of  extreme  abuse. 


48  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

It  was  a  prevalent  belief  of  the  populace  at  this 
time  that  the  allies,  and  particularly  the  British,  were 
planning  to  invade  Russia  and  relieve  the  stricken 
country.  Hearing  them  discussing  the  probability 
of  such  an  event,  and  the  part  their  master  Ivan 
Sergeievitch  might  take  in  it,  I  told  them  straight  out 
that  I  was  an  Englishman,  a  disclosure  the  effect  of 
which  was  electric.  For  a  time  they  would  not  credit 
it,  for  in  appearance  I  might  be  any  nationality  bul 
English.  Stepanovna  was  a  little  frightened,  but 
Dmitri  sat  still  and  a  broad  smile  gradually  spread  over 
his  good-natured  features.  When  we  sat  down  about 
nine  I  found  quite  a  good  supper  with  meat  and  po- 
tatoes, prepared  evidently  chiefly  for  me,  for  their 
own  dinner  was  at  midday. 

"However  did  you  get  the  meat?"  I  exclaimed  as 
Stepanovna  bustled  about  to  serve  me. 

"That  is  Dmitri's  army  ration,"  she  said,  simply. 
Dmitri  sat  still  on  his  box  against  the  kitchen  wall,  but 
the  smile  never  departed  from  his  face. 

That  night  I  found  Varia  had  made  up  for  me  the 
best  bed  in  the  flat,  and  lying  in  this  unexpected 
luxury  I  tried  to  sum  up  my  impressions  of  the  first 
two  days  of  adventure.  For  two  days  I  had  wandered 
round  the  city,  living  from  minute  to  minute  and  hour 
to  hour,  unnoticed.  I  no  longer  saw  eyes  in  every  wall. 
I  felt  that  I  really  passed  with  the  crowd.  Only  now  and 
again  someone  would  glance  curiously  and  perhaps  en- 
viously at  my  black  leather  breeches.  But  the  breeches 
themselves  aroused  no  suspicions  for  the  commissars  all 
wore  good  leather  clothes.  None  the  less,  I  resolved  I 
would  smear  my  breeches  with  dirt  before  sallying  forth 
on  the  morrow,  so  that  they  woui<i  nor  look  so  new. 


FIVE  DAYS  49 

How  shabbily  every  one  was  dressed,  I  mused  drowsily. 
But  the  peasants  looked  the  same  as  ever  in  their 
sheepskin  coats  and  bast  shoes.  One  of  the  pamphlets 
I  had  bought  was  an  address  to  the  peasantry,  entitled 
Join  the  Communes,  urging  the  peasants  to  labour  not 
for  pecuniary  gain  but  for  the  common  weal,  supplying 
bread  to  the  town  workers  who  would  in  turn  produce 
for  the  peasantry.  The  idea  was  a  beautiful  one, 
but  the  idealistic  conception  was  completely  submerged 
in  the  welter  of  rancour  and  incitement  of  class-hatred. 
I  recalled  my  talk  with  the  cabman  who  told  me  it 
cost  him  two  hundred  roubles  a  day  to  feed  his  horse 
because  the  peasantry  refused  to  bring  provender  to 
the  cities.  Two  hundred  roubles,  I  reflected  dreamily 
as  I  dozed  off,  was  half  my  monthly  wages  of  the 
previous  year  and  twice  as  much  as  I  earned  before  the 
war  teaching  English.  I  reheard  snatches  of  conver- 
sation at  the  railway  station,  at  the  little  dining-room, 
and  with  Stepanovna.  Was  everyone  really  so  bitter 
as  Stepanovna  said  they  were?  Stepanovna  and 
Varia  were  devoted  to  their  master  and  thought  in 
their  simplicity  Ivan  Sergeievitch  would  return  with 
the  English.  Anyway,  it  was  nice  of  them  to  give 
me  this  bed.  There  were  no  sheets,  but  the  blankets 
were  warm  and  they  had  even  found  me  an  old  pair  of 
pyjamas.  I  nestled  cozily  into  the  blankets;  the 
streets,  Stepanovna,  and  the  room  faded  away  in  a 
common  blur,  and  I  passed  into  the  silent  land  of  no 
dreams. 


I  was  awakened  rudely  by  a  loud  ring  at  the  bell, 
and   sprang  up,   all  alert.     It  was  quarter  to  eight. 


50  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

Who,  I  asked  myself,  could  the  callers  be?  A  search? 
Had  the  house  committee  heard  of  the  unregistered 
lodger?  What  should  I  say?  I  would  say  Stepanovna 
was  a  relative,  I  would  complain  rudely  of  being  dis- 
turbed, I  would  bluster,  I  would  flaunt  my  passport 
of  the  Extraordinary  Commission.  Or  perhaps  Stepa- 
novna and  Varia  would  somehow  explain  away  my 
presence,  for  they  knew  the  members  of  the  committee. 
I  began  dressing  hastily.  I  could  hear  Stepanovna 
and  Varia  conferring  in  the  kitchen.  Then  they  both 
shuffled  along  the  passage  to  the  door.  I  heard  the 
door  opened,  first  on  the  chain,  and  then  a  moment's 
silence.  At  last  the  chain  was  removed.  Someone 
was  admitted  and  the  door  closed.  I  heard  men's 
voices  and  boots  tramping  along  the  passage.  Con- 
vinced now  that  a  search  was  to  be  made  I  fished 
feverishly  in  my  pockets  to  get  out  my  passport  fcr 
demonstration,  when — into  the  room  burst  Melnikoff ! 
Never  was  I  so  dumfounded  in  my  life!  Melnikoff"  was 
dressed  in  other  clothes  than  I  had  seen  him  in  when 
we  last  parted  and  he  wore  spectacles  which  altered 
his  appearance  considerably.  Behind  him  entered  a 
huge  fellow,  a  sort  of  Ilia  Murometz,  whose  stubble- 
covered  face  brimmed  over  with  smiles  beaming  good- 
nature and  jollity.  This  giant  was  dressed  in  a  rough 
and  ragged  brown  suit  and  in  his  hand  he  squeezed 
a  dirty  hat. 

"Marsh,"  observed  Melnikoff,  curtly,  by  way  of 
introduction,  smiling  at  my  incredulity.  We  shook 
hands  heartily  all  round  while  I  still  fumbled  my  pass- 
port.    "I  was  about  to  defy  you  with  that!"  I  laughed, 

showing  them  the  paper.     "Tell  me,  how  the ,    I 

thought  you  were  in  prison!" 


The  author  as  he  appeared  on  various  occasions  in  Soviet 
Russia.  The  top  right  hand  photo  was  taken  when  in  the  Red 
army 


I.    tj^^v^ 


tf 


S3 

-= 


FIVE  DAYS  51 

"Not  quite!"  Marsh  exclaimed,  dropping  into 
English  at  once.  "I  had  a  larky  get-away!  Slithered 
down  a  drainpipe  outside  the  kitchen  window  into 
the  next  yard  as  the  Reds  came  in  at  the  front  door. 
Shaved  my  beard  at  once."  He  rubbed  his  chin. 
"About  time,  by  the  way,  I  saw  the  barber  again. 
The  blighters  are  looking  for  me  everywhere.  I  was 
held  up  one  evening  by  one  of  their  damned  spies  under 
a  lamp-post.  I  screwed  my  face  into  a  freak  and  asked 
him  for  a  light.  Then  I  knocked  him  down.  And 
yesterday  evening  I  was  going  into  a  yard  on  Sadovaya 
Street  when  under  the  arch  I  heard  someone  behind  me 
say, '  Marsh ! '  I  sprang  round,  just  about  to  administer 
the  same  medicine,  when  I  saw  it  was  Melnikoff!" 

"But  how  did  you  find  me  here?"  I  said. 

"Ask  Melnikoff."  I  asked  Melnikoff  in  Russian. 
He  was  nervous  and  impatient. 

"Luck,"  he  replied.  "I  guessed  you  might  possibly 
be  in  Sergeievitch's  flat  and  so  you  are.  But  listen, 
I  can't  stay  here  long.  I'm  being  looked  for,  too.  You 
can  meet  me  safely  at  three  this  afternoon  at  the  15th 
communal  eating-house  in  the  Nevsky.  You  don't 
need  a  ticket  to  enter.  I'll  tell  you  everything  then. 
Don't  stay  more  than  two  nights  in  one  place." 

"All  right,"  I  said,  "three  o'clock  at  the  15th  eating- 
house." 

"And  don't  go  to  Vera's  any  more,"  he  added  as 
he  hurried  away.  "Something  is  wrong  there.  Good- 
bye." 

"Get  dressed,"  said  Marsh  when  Melnikoff  had 
gone,  "and  I'll  take  you  straight  along  to  a  place 
you  can  go  to  regularly.  But  rely  mainly  on  Mel- 
nikoff, he's  the  cleverest  card  I  ever  saw." 


52         RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

Stepanovna,  beaming  with  pleasure  and  pride  at 
having  two  Englishmen  in  her  flat,  and  nervous  at 
the  same  time  on  account  of  the  circumstances,  brought 
in  tea,  and  I  told  Marsh  of  my  mission  to  Russia. 
Though  he  had  not  been  connected  with  intelligence 
organizations,  he  knew  people  who  had,  and  mentioned 
the  names  of  a  number  of  persons  whose  aid  might  be 
reenlisted.  One  or  two  occupied  high  positions  in 
the  ministry  of  war  and  the  admiralty. 

But  there  was  a  more  pressing  task  on  hand  than  in- 
telligence. The  Bolsheviks  suspected  Marsh  of  com- 
plicity, together  with  other  Englishmen,  in  assisting 
allied  citizens  who  were  refused  passports  to  escape 
from  the  country  secretly.  Numerous  arrests  among 
foreigners  were  being  made  and  Marsh  had  had  a  hair- 
breadth escape.  But  his  wife  had  been  seized  in  his 
stead  as  hostage,  and  this  calamity  filled  him  with  con- 
cern. 

Mrs.  Marsh  was  imprisoned  at  the  notorious  No.  2 
Gorohovaya  Street,  the  address  of  the  Extraordinary 
Commission,  and  Marsh  was  awaiting  the  report 
of  a  man  who  had  connections  with  the  Commission 
as  to  the  possibilities  of  effecting  her  escape.  "This 
man,"  explained  Marsh,  "was,  I  believe,  an  official 
of  the  ohrana  (the  Tsar's  personal  secret  police)  before 
the  revolution,  and  is  doing  some  sort  of  clerical  work  in 
a  Soviet  institution  now.  The  Bolsheviks  are  re- 
engaging Tsarist  police  agents  for  the  Extraordinary 
Commission,  so  he  has  close  connections  there  and 
knows  most  of  what  goes  on.  He  is  a  liar  and  it  is 
difficult  to  believe  what  he  says,  but,"  (Marsh 
paused  and  rubbed  his  forefinger  and  thumb  together 
to  indicate  that  finance  entered  into  the  transaction), 


FIVE  DAYS  53 

"if  you  outbid  the  Bolsheviks,  this  fellow  can  do 
things,  understand?" 

Marsh  put  me  up  to  the  latest  position  of  every- 
thing in  Petrograd.  He  also  said  he  would  be  able 
to  find  me  lodging  for  a  few  nights  until  I  had  some 
settled  mode  of  living.  He  had  wide  acquaintance- 
ship in  the  city  and  many  of  his  friends  lived  in  a  quiet, 
unobtrusive  manner,  working  for  a  living  in  Soviet 
offices. 

"Better  be  moving  along  now,"  he  said  when  we 
had  finished  tea.  "I'll  go  ahead  because  we  mustn't 
walk  together.  Follow  me  in  about  five  minutes, 
and  you'll  find  me  standing  by  the  hoarding  round 
the  Kazan  Cathedral." 

"The  hoarding  round  the  Kazan  Cathedral?  So 
you  know  that  hoarding,  too?"  I  asked,  recalling 
my  intention  of  hiding  in  that  very  place. 

"I  certainly  do,"  he  exclaimed.  "Spent  the  first 
night  there  after  my  get-away.  Now  I'll  be  off.  When 
you  see  me  shoot  off  from  the  hoarding  follow  me  as 
far  behind  as  you  can.     So  long." 

"By  the  way,"  I  said,  as  he  went  out,  "that  hoard- 
ing—it doesn't  happen  to  be  a  regular  shelter  for — for 
homeless  and  destitute  Englishmen  or  others,  does 
it?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  he  laughed,  "Why?" 

"Oh,  nothing.     I  only  wondered." 

I  let  Marsh  out  and  heard  his  steps  reechoing  down 
the  stone  staircase. 

"I  shall  not  be  back  to-night,  Stepanovna,"  I  said, 
preparing  to  follow  him.  "I  can't  tell  you  how  grate- 
ful  " 

"Oh,   but  Ivan   Pavlovitch,"   exclaimed   the  good 


54  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

woman,  "you  can  come  here  any  time  you  like.  If 
anything  happens,"  she  added  in  a  lower  tone,  "we'll 
say  you  belong  to  us.     No  one  need  know." 

"Well,  well,"  I  said,  "but  not  to-night.  Good-bye, 
good-bye."  While  Stepanovna  and  Varia  let  me 
out  I  had  a  vision  of  Dmitri  standing  at  the  kitchen 
door,  stolidly  munching  a  crust  of  black  bread. 

Outside  the  hoarding  of  the  Kazan  Cathedral  I 
espied  the  huge  figure  of  Marsh  sitting  on  a  stone. 
When  he  saw  me  over  the  way  he  rose  and  slouched 
along  with  his  collar  turned  up,  diving  into  side  streets 
and  avoiding  the  main  thoroughfares.  I  followed  at  a 
distance.  Eventually  we  came  out  to  the  Siennaya 
market,  crossed  it,  and  plunged  into  the  maze  of  streets 
to  the  south.  Marsh  disappeared  under  an  arch  and, 
following  his  steps,  I  found  myself  in  a  dark,  filthy, 
reeking  yard  with  a  back  stair  entrance  on  either  hand. 
Marsh  stood  at  the  stairway  on  the  left.  "Flat  No.  5 
on  the  second  floor,"  he  said.  "We  can  go  up  to- 
gether." 

The  stairway  was  narrow  and  littered  with  rubbish. 
At  a  door  with  "5"  chalked  on  it  Marsh  banged  loudly 
three  times  with  his  fist,  and  it  was  opened  by  a  woman, 
dressed  plainly  in  black,  who  greeted  Marsh  with  ex- 
clamations of  welcome  and  relief. 

"Aha,  Maria,"  he  shouted  boisterously,  "here  we 
are,  you  see — not  got  me  yet.  And  won't  get  me, 
unless  I've  got  a  pumpkin  on  my  shoulders  instead 
of  a  head!" 

Maria  was  his  housekeeper.  She  looked  question- 
ingly  at  me,  obviously  doubtful  whether  I  ought  to 
be  admitted.  Marsh  howled  with  laughter.  "All 
right,  Maria,"  he  cried,  "let  him  in.     He's  only  my 


FIVE  DAYS  55 

comrade — comrades  in  distress,  and  ha!  ha!  ha! 
'comrades'  in  looks,  eh,  Maria?" 

Maria  smiled  curiously.  "Certainly  'comrades'  in 
looks,"  she  said,  slowly. 

"By  the  way,"  asked  Marsh,  as  we  passed  into  an 
inner  room,  "what  name  are  you  using?" 

"Afirenko,"  I  said.  "But  that's  official.  Tell 
Maria  I'm  called  'Ivan  Hitch.'" 

Maria  set  the  samovar  and  produced  some  black 
bread   and   butter. 

"This  flat,"  said  Marsh,  with  his  mouth  full,  "be- 
longed to  a  business  colleague  of  mine.  The  Reds 
seized  him  by  mistake  for  someone  else.  Silly  fool, 
nearly  (here  Marsh  used  a  very  unparliamentary 
expression)  with  funk  when  he  got  arrested.  Sat 
in  chokey  three  days  and  was  told  he  was  to  be  shot, 
when  luckily  for  him  the  right  man  was  collared.  Then 
they  let  him  out  and  I  shipped  him  over  the  frontier. 
They'll  forget  all  about  him.  In  the  daytime  this  is 
one  of  the  safest  places  in  town." 

The  flat  was  almost  devoid  of  furniture.  A  bare 
table  stood  in  one  room  and  a  desk  in  another.  An 
old  couch  and  a  few  chairs  made  up  the  outfit.  The 
windows  were  so  dirty  that  they  were  quite  opaque  and 
admitted  very  little  light  from  the  narrow  street. 
Although  it  was  nearly  midday  an  oil  lamp  burned  on 
the  table  of  the  room  we  sat  in.  Electric  light  was 
becoming  rarer  and  rarer  and  only  burned  for  a  few 
hours  every  evening. 

Marsh  sat  and  talked  of  his  adventures  and  the 
work  he  had  been  doing  for  the  allied  colonies.  His 
country  farm  had  been  seized  and  pillaged,  his  city 
business  was  ruined,  he  had  long  been  under  suspicion, 


56         RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

and  yet  he  refused  to  leave.  But  the  arrest  of  his 
wife  bore  constantly  on  his  mind.  From  time  to  time 
his  boisterous  flow  of  talk  would  suddenly  cease.  He 
would  pass  his  hand  over  his  brow,  a  far-away  troubled 
look  coming  into  his  eyes. 

"If  only  it  were  an  ordinary  prison,"  he  would  say, 

"if  only  they  were  human  beings.     But   these ! 

By  the  way,  will  you  come  with  me  to  see  the  Police- 
man? I  am  going  to  meet  him  in  half  an  hour." 
The  "Policeman"  was  the  nickname  by  which  we 
referred  to  the  Tsarist  official  of  whom  Marsh  had 
spoken  in  the  morning.  I  reflected  for  a  moment. 
Perhaps  the  Policeman  might  be  useful  to  me  later.  I 
consented. 

Telling  Maria  to  look  out  for  us  both  about  that 
time  next  morning,  we  left  the  flat  by  the  back  en- 
trance as  we  had  entered  it.  Again  Marsh  walked 
ahead,  and  I  followed  his  slouching  figure  at  a  dis- 
tance as  he  wound  in  and  out  of  side  streets.  The 
dwelling  we  were  going  to,  he  told  me,  was  that  of 
an  ex-journalist,  who  was  now  engaged  as  a  scribe  in 
the  Department  of  Public  Works,  and  it  was  at  the 
journalist's  that  he  had  arranged  to  meet  the  Po- 
liceman. 

The  journalist  lived  all  alone  in  a  flat  in  the  Liteiny 
Prospect.  I  watched  Marsh  disappear  into  the  en- 
trance and  waited  a  moment  to  convince  myself  he 
was  not  being  tracked.  From  the  opposite  sidewalk 
I  saw  him  look  back  through  the  glass  door,  signalling 
that  all  was  well  within,  so  giving  him  time  to  mount 
the  stairs  I  followed. 

He  rang  the  bell  at  a  door  covered  with  oilcloth 
and  felt.     After  a  moment's  silence  there  was  a  shuffling 


FIVE  DAYS  57 

of  slippers,  an  inner  door  opened,  and  a  voice  said, 
"Who's  there?" 

"He  expects  me  to  say  who's  here,  the  silly  fool," 
growled  Marsh  under  his  breath,  adding  just  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  through  the  door,  "I." 

"Who?     'I'?"  persisted  the  voice. 

"I,  Peter  Sergeievitch "  (aloud),  "blithering  idiot" 
(undertone),   said  Marsh. 

There  was  much  undoing  of  bars  and  bolts,  and 
finally,  the  door  opening  slightly  on  the  chain,  a  pair 
of  nervous,  twinkling  eyes  peered  through  the  chink. 

"Ah!"  said  the  nervous  face,  breaking  into  a  smile, 
"Ivan  Petrovitch!"  The  door  closed  again  and  the 
chain  was  removed.  Then  it  reopened  and  we  passed 
in. 

"Why  the  devil  couldn't  you  open  at  once?"  grum- 
bled Marsh.  "You  knew  I  was  coming.  'Who's 
there',  indeed!  Do  you  want  me  to  bawl  'Marsh' 
at  the  top  of  my  voice  outside  your  door?"  At  this 
the  nervous  man  looked  terrified.  "Well,  then  why 
don't  you  open?  'Ivan  Petrovitch'  or  'Peter  Ser- 
geievitch'— can't  any  one  be  Ivan  Petrovitch?  Isn't 
that  just  why  I  am  'Ivan  Petrovitch'?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  answered  the  nervous  man,  "but  nowa- 
days one  never  knows  who  may  be  at  the  door." 

"Well,  then,  open  and  look,  or  next  time  I  will 
shout  'Marsh.' ':  The  nervous  man  looked  more  terri- 
fied than  ever.  "Well,  well,"  laughed  Marsh,  "I  am 
only  joking.     This  is  my  friend — er " 

"Michael  Mihailovitch,"  I  put  in. 

"Very  glad  to  see  you,  Michael  Minailovitch,"  said 
the  nervous  man,  looking  anything  but  glad. 

The  journalist  was  a  man  of  thirty -five  years  of  age, 


58    RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

though  his  thin  and  pale  features,  dishevelled  hair, 
and  ragged  beard,  gave  him  the  appearance  of  being 
nearly  fifty.  He  was  attired  in  an  old  greenish  over- 
coat with  the  collar  turned  up,  and  dragged  his  feet 
about  in  a  pair  of  worn-out  carpet  slippers.  The 
flat  was  on  the  shady  side  of  the  street,  the  sun  never 
peered  into  its  gloomy  precincts,  it  was  dark  and  musty, 
and  icy  cold. 

"Well,  how  go  things,  Dmitri  Konstantinovitch?" 
asked  Marsh. 

"Poorly,  poorly,  Ivan  Petrovitch,"  said  the  jour- 
nalist, coughing.  "This  is  the  third  day  I  have  not 
been  to  work.  You  will  excuse  my  proceeding  with 
business,  I'm  having  lunch.  Come  into  the  kitchen, 
it  is  the  least  cold  of  all  rooms." 

The  journalist,  preparing  his  noonday  meal,  was 
engaged  in  boiling  a  few  potatoes  over  a  stick  fire  in 
a  tiny  portable  oven.  "Two  days'  rations,"  he  re- 
marked, ironically,  holding  up  a  salt  herring.  "How 
do  they  expect  us  to  live,  indeed?  And  half  a  pound 
of  bread  into  the  bargain.  That's  how  they  feed  the 
bourgeois  in  return  for  sweating  for  them.  And 
if  you  don't  sweat  for  them,  then  you  get  nothing. 
'He  who  toileth  not,  neither  let  him  eat,'  as  they  say. 
But  it's  only  'toil'  if  it  is  to  their  advantage.  If  you 
toil  to  your  own  advantage,  then  it  is  called  'specu- 
lation,' and  you  get  shot.  Ugh!  A  pretty  state  our 
Russia  has  come  to,  indeed!  Do  we  not  rightly  say 
we  are  a  herd  of  sheep?" 

Continuing  in  this  strain  the  journalist  scraped  his 
smelly  herring  and  began  eating  it  with  his  potatoes 
ravenously  and  yet  gingerly,  knowing  that  the  quicker 
he   finished    the   scanty   repast   the   sooner   he   would 


FIVE  DAYS  59 

realize  there  was  nothing  more.  Picking  the  skeleton 
clean,  he  sucked  the  tail  and  dug  his  fork  into  the 
head  for  the  last  scraps  of  meat. 

"Plus  1,000  roubles  a  month,"  he  went  on.  "Here 
I  eat  two  days'  rations  at  a  single  meal,  and  what  can 
I  buy  with  1,000  roubles?  A  few  pounds  of  potatoes, 
a  pound  or  two  of  bread  and  butter?  Then  there's 
nothing  left  for  fuel,  when  wood  that  used  to  cost 
5  roubles  a  sazhen  now  costs  500!" 

From  his  overcoat  pocket  Marsh  produced  half  a 
pound  of  bread.  "Here,  Dmitri  Konstantinovitch," 
he  said,  thrusting  it  toward  him,  "your  health!" 

The  journalist's  face  became  transfigured.  Its  hag- 
gard look  vanished.  He  glanced  up,  his  mouth  fixed 
in  a  half-laugh  of  delight  and  incredulity,  his  sunken 
eyes  sparkling  with  childlike  pleasure  and  gratitude. 

"For  me?"  he  exclaimed,  scarcely  believing  his 
eyes.  'But  what  about  yourself?  Surely  you  do 
not  get  sufficient,  especially  since " 

"Don't  worry  about  me,"  said  Marsh,  with  his 
good-natured  smile.  "You  know  Maria?  She  is 
a  wonder!  She  gets  everything.  From  my  farm 
she  managed  to  save  several  sacks  of  potatoes  and 
quite  a  lot  of  bread,  and  hide  it  all  here  in  town.  But 
listen,  Dmitri  Konstantinovitch,  I'm  expecting  a 
visitor  here  soon,  the  same  man  as  the  day  before 
yesterday.  I  will  take  him  into  the  other  room, 
so  that  he  need  not  see  you." 

The  journalist,  I  could  see,  was  overcome  with 
fear  at  being  obliged  to  receive  Marsh's  unwelcome 
visitor,  but  he  said  nothing.  He  wrapped  the  bread 
carefully  up  in  paper  and  put  it  away  in  a  cupboard. 
A  moment  later  there  were  three  sharp  rings  at  the 


60         RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

bell.  Marsh  hurried  to  the  door,  admitted  his  visitor, 
and  led  him  into  the  journalist's  cabinet. 

"You  may  as  well  come  in,  too,"  he  said  to  me, 
looking  into  the  kitchen. 

"Michael  Ivanitch,"  I  whispered,  pointing  at  my- 
self, as  we  passed  in.  Marsh  introduced  me.  "My 
friend,  Michael  Ivanitch  Schmit,"  he  said. 

My  first  impulse  when  I  saw  the  individual  Marsh 
nicknamed  "the  Policeman"  was  to  laugh,  for  any  one 
less  like  a  policeman  than  the  little  man  who  rose 
and  bowed  I  have  seldom  seen.  I  will  not  describe 
him  too  precisely,  but  he  was  short,  red-faced,  and 
insignificant-looking.  In  spite  of  this,  however,  his 
manner  showed  that  he  had  a  very  high  opinion  of 
his  own  importance.  He  shook  hands  and  reseated 
himself  with  comical  dignity. 

"Go  on,  Alexei  Fomitch,"  said  Marsh.  "I  want 
my  friend  to  know  how  matters  stand.  He  may  be 
able  to  help." 

"Madame  Marsh,  as  I  was  saying,"  proceeded 
the  Policeman,  "is  incarcerated  in  chamber  No.  4 
with  38  other  women  of  various  station,  including 
titled  personages,  servant  girls,  and  prostitutes.  The 
chamber  is  not  a  large  one  and  I  fear  the  conditions 
are  far  from  pleasant.  My  informants  tell  me  she 
is  cross-examined  several  hours  every  day  with  the 
object  of  eliciting  the  hiding-place  of  Monsieur  Marsh, 
which  they  believe  she  knows.  Unfortunately  her  case 
is  complicated  by  the  confused  replies  she  has  given, 
for  after  several  hours'  interrogation  it  often  becomes 
difficult  to  retain  clarity  of  mind.  Confused  or  in- 
coherent replies,  even  though  accidental,  lead  to  further 
and  still  more  exacting  interpellation." 


FIVE  DAYS  61 

Marsh  followed  every  word  with  a  concern  that  was 
not  lost  upon  the  Policeman.  "But  can  we  not  get 
round  the  interrogators?"  he  asked,  "they  all  have 
their  price,  damn  it." 

"Yes,  that  is  often  so,"  continued  the  Policeman  in 
a  tone  of  feigned  consolation.  "The  investigator  can 
frequently  be  induced  to  turn  the  evidence  in  favour 
of  the  accused.  But  in  this  case  it  is  unfortunately 
useless  to  offer  the  usual  bribe,  for  even  if  Madame 
Marsh's  innocence  is  proven  to  the  hilt,  she  will  still 
be  detained  as  a  hostage  until  the  discovery  of  Mon- 
sieur Marsh." 

Marsh's  face  twinged.  "I  feared  so,"  he  said  in  a 
dull  voice.     "What  are  the  chances  of  flight?" 

"I  was  coming  to  that,"  said  the  Policeman,  suavely. 
"I  am  already  making  inquiries  on  the  subject.  But 
it  will  take  some  days  to  arrange.  The  assistance 
of  more  than  one  person  will  have  to  be  enlisted.  And 
I  fear — I  hesitate,"  he  added  in  unctuous  tones  of 
regret,  "I  hesitate  to  refer  to  such  a  matter — but  I 
am  afraid  this  method  may  be  a  little  more — er — 
costly.     Pardon  me  for " 

"Money?"  cried  Marsh.  "Damn  it  all,  man, 
don't  you  realize  it  is  my  wife?  How  much  do  you 
want?" 

"Oh,  Monsieur  Marsh,"  expostulated  the  Policeman, 
raising  his  palm,  "you  are  well  aware  that  I  take 
nothing  for  myself.  I  do  this  out  of  friendship  to 
you — and  our  gallant  allies.  But  there  is  a  prison 
janitor,  I  must  give  him  5,000,  two  warders  10,000, 
a  go-between  2,000,   odd  expenses " 

"Stop!"  put  in  Marsh,  abruptly,  "tell  me  how  much 
it  will  cost." 


62         RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

The  Policeman's  face  assumed  a  pained  expression. 
"It  may  cost,"  he  said,  "twenty-five,  possibly  thirty 
thousand   roubles." 

"Thirty  thousand.  You  shall  have  it.  I  gave  you 
ten  thousand,  here  are  another  ten  thousand;  you 
shall  have  the  third  ten  thousand  the  day  my  wife 
leaves  prison." 

The  Policeman  took  the  notes,  and  with  a  look  of 
offended  dignity,  as  though  the  handling  of  money 
were  altogether  beneath  him,  hid  them  in  an  inner 
pocket. 

"When  will  you  be  able  to  report  again?"  asked 
Marsh. 

"I  expect  the  day  after  to-morrow.  If  you  like  to 
come  to  my  house  it  is  quite  safe." 

"Very  well,  we  will  meet  there.  And  now,  if  you 
are  not  in  a  hurry,  I'll  see  if  I  can  raise  some  tea.  It's 
damned  cold  in  this  room." 

When  Marsh  had  gone  into  the  kitchen  the  little 
Policeman  ventured  to  open  conversation. 

"Such  times,  such  times,"  he  sighed.  "Who  would 
have  thought  it  possible?  You  live  in  Petrograd, 
Michael   Ivanitch?" 

"Yes." 

"You  are  in  service,  perhaps?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Yours  must  have  been  an  interesting  occupation," 
I  remarked,  "in  days  gone  by." 
lou  mean: 

"You  were  connected  with  the  police,  were  you  not?" 

I  saw  at  once  I  had  made  a  faux  pas.  The  little 
man  turned  very  red.     "  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  hastened 


FIVE  DAYS  63 

to  add,  "I  understood  you  were  an  official  of  the 
ohrana" 

This  apparently  was  still  worse.  The  little  Po- 
liceman sat  up  very  straight,  flushing  deeply  and 
looking  rather  like  a  turkey-cock. 

"No,  sir,"  he  said  in  what  were  intended  to  be  icy 
tones,  "you  have  been  grossly  misinformed.  I  have 
never  been  connected  either  with  the  police  or  the 
ohrana.  Under  the  Tsar,  sir,  I  moved  in  Court  circles. 
I  had  the  ear  of  his  late  Imperial  Majesty,  and  the 
Imperial  Palace  was  open  to  me  at  any  time." 

At  this  point,  fortunately  for  me,  Marsh  returned 
with  three  glasses  of  tea,  apologizing  for  not  providing 
sugar,  and  the  conversation  turned  to  the  inevitable 
subject  of  famine.     At  length  the  Policeman  rose  to 

go- 

"By  the  way,  Alexei  Fomitch,"  said  Marsh,  "can 

you  find  me  a  lodging  for  to-night?" 

"A  lodging  for  to-night?  I  shall  be  honoured,  Mon- 
sieur Marsh,  if  you  will  accept  such  hospitality  as 
I  myself  can  offer.  I  have  an  extra  bed,  though  my 
fare  I  am  afraid  will  not  be  luxurious.  Still,  such  as 
it  is " 

"Thank  you.  I  will  come  as  near  nine  o'clock  as 
possible." 

"Give  three  short  rings,  and  I  will  open  the  door 
myself,"  said  the  Policeman. 

When  he  had  gone  I  told  Marsh  of  our  conversation 
and  asked  what  the  little  man  meant  by  "moving  in 
Court  circles."     Marsh  was  greatly  amused. 

"Oh,  he  was  a  private  detective  or  something,"  he 
said.  "Conceited  as  hell  about  it.  'Ear  of  the  Tsar,' 
indeed!     What    he's    after    is    money.     He'll    pocket 


64  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

most  of  the  30,000.  But  he's  afraid  of  us,  too.  He's 
cocksure  the  Allies  are  coming  into  Petrograd,  so 
if  you  have  anything  to  do  with  him  tell  him  you're 
an  Englishman  and  he'll  grovel.  By  the  way,  we  had 
better  let  Dmitri  Konstantinovitch  into  the  secret, 
too,  because  you  will  find  this  flat  very  useful.  The 
journalist  is  a  damned  old  coward,  but  buy  him 
some  grub  or,  still  better,  pay  for  his  fuel  and  he  will 
let  you  use  the  flat  as  much  as  you  like." 

So  the  nervous  ex-journalist  was  initiated  into  the 
great  secret,  and  when  Marsh  said,  "You  don't  mind 
if  he  comes  in  occasionally  to  sleep  on  the  sofa, 
do  you?"  Dmitri  Konstantinovitch  nearly  died 
with  fear.  His  thin  lips  vibrated,  and  clearer  than 
any  words  his  twitching  smile  and  tear-filled  eyes 
implored,  "Oh,  for  God's  sake,  leave  me  alone!" — 
until  I  said  boldly,  "But  I  don't  like  sleeping  in  the 
cold,  Dmitri  Konstantinovitch.  Perhaps  you  could 
get  some  wood  in  for  me.  Here  is  the  price  of  a  sazhen 
of  logs;  we  will  share  the  wood,  of  course."  Then 
his  care-worn,  troubled  face  again  became  suddenly 
transfigured  as  it  had  when  Marsh  gave  him  bread. 
"Ah,  splendid,  splendid,"  he  cried  in  delight,  his  fears 
completely  obliterated  by  the  anticipation  of  coming 
warmth.  "I  will  get  the  wood  in  this  very  afternoon, 
and  you  shall  have  sheets  and  blankets  and  I  will 
make  you  comfortable."  So  it  was  arranged  that 
unless  Melnikoff  found  me  a  more  suitable  place  I 
should  return  to  the  journalist's  that  night. 

It  was  now  time  for  me  to  be  thinking  of  keeping 
my  appointment  with  Melnikoff  at  the  communal 
eating-house.  So  I  left  Marsh  arranging  to  meet  him 
at  the  empty  flat  "No.  5"  next  morning.     Musing  on 


FIVE  DAYS  65 

the  events  of  the  day  I  made  my  way  down  the  stair- 
case and  came  out  again  into  the  Liteiny  Prospect. 
It  seemed  ages  since,  but  two  days  ago,  I  walked  along 
this  same  street  on  the  day  of  my  arrival  in  Petrograd, 
after  running  across  the  frontier.  What  would  Mel- 
nikoff now  have  to  tell  me,  I  wondered? 

As  I  rounded  the  corner  of  the  Nevsky  Prospect  I 
noticed  a  concourse  of  people  outside  the  communal 
eating-house  toward  which  I  was  directing  my  steps.  I 
followed  the  people,  who  were  moving  hurriedly  across 
the  street  to  the  other  side.  At  the  entrance  to  the 
eating-house  stood  two  sailors  on  guard  with  fixed 
bayonets,  while  people  were  being  filed  out  of  the 
building  singly,  led  by  militiamen.  In  the  dark  lobby 
within  one  could  dimly  discern  individuals  being 
searched.  Their  documents  were  being  examined  and, 
standing  in  their  shirt  sleeves,  their  clothing  was 
being  subjected  to  strict  investigation. 

I  waited  to  see  if  Melnikoff  would  emerge  from  the 
building.  After  a  moment  I  felt  a  tap  on  my  arm  and 
looking  round  I  was  confronted  by  Zorinsky,  the  officer 
who  had  accosted  me  in  the  cafe  of  Vera  Alexandrovna 
on  the  day  of  my  arrival.  Zorinsky  signalled  to  me 
to  move  aside  with  him. 

"Were  you  to  meet  Melnikoff  here?"  he  asked. 
"It  is  lucky  for  you  you  did  not  enter  the  restaurant. 
The  place  is  being  raided.  I  was  about  to  go  in  myself, 
but  came  a  little  late,  thank  God.  Melnikoff  was  one 
of  the  first  to  be  arrested  and  has  already  been  taken 
away." 

"What  is  the  cause  of  the  raid?"  I  asked,  dismayed 
by  this  news. 

"Who  knows?"   replied   Zorinsky.     "These   things 


66         RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

are  done  spasmodically.  Melnikoff  has  been  tracked 
for  some  days,  I  believe,  and  it  may  have  been  on  his 
account.     Anyway,  it  is  serious,  for  he  is  well  known." 

People  were  beginning  to  move  away  and  the  search 
was  clearly  nearing  its  end. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  said  my  companion. 

"I  do  not  know,"  I  replied,  not  wishing  to  confide 
any  of  my  movements  to  Zorinsky. 

"We  must  begin  to  think  of  some  way  of  getting 
him  out,"  he  said.  "Melnikoff  was  a  great  friend  of 
mine,  but  you  are,  I  expect,  as  interested  in  his  release 
as  I  am." 

"Is  there  any  chance?"  I  exclaimed.  "Of  course 
I  am  interested." 

"Then  I  suggest  you  come  home  with  me  and  we 
we  will  talk  it  over.     I  live  quite  near." 

Anxious  to  learn  of  any  possibility  of  saving  Mel- 
nikoff, I  consented.  We  passed  into  Troitzkaya  Street 
and  entered  a  large  house  on  the  right. 

"How  do  you  wish  me  to  call  you?"  asked  Zorinsky 
as  we  mounted  the  staircase.  I  was  struck  by  the 
considerateness  of  his  question  and  replied,  "Pavel 
Ivanitch." 

The  flat  in  which  Zorinsky  lived  was  large  and 
luxuriously  furnished,  and  showed  no  signs  of  molesta- 
tion. "You  live  comfortably,"  I  remarked,  sinking 
into  a  deep  leather  arm-chair.  "Yes,  we  do  pretty 
well,"  he  replied.  "My  wife,  you  see,  is  an  actress. 
She  receives  as  many  provisions  as  she  wants  and  our 
flat  is  immune  from  requisition  of  furniture  or  the 
obtrusion  of  workmen.  We  will  go  round  some 
evening,  if  you  like,  and  see  her  dance.  As  for  me, 
my  wife  has  registered  me  as  a  sub-manager  of  the 


iFft  - ; 

v.  ;V>  .-,>.    •  - 

f 

- 

'■•■f    •  "*£' 

| 

*    '-'               J&  fl 

,.•-  - 1  ^  d 

1       ■  fw  J?  I     -  '^.3  1      H 

>'•">  ^^K-Sfel 

»-^&  ^ 

- '  -  - 

~"W""3^^BI 

; 

..  -  - 

■ 

. -ii      i. 

(Above)  Typical  view  of  a  Russian  village  (province 
of  Smolensk) 

(Below)  The  author  and  peasant  children  of  the  province 

of  Tula 


Vhove)  Night  photograph  of  the  Fortress  of  Peter  and  Paul 
in  the  river  Neva.  Petrograd 

(Below)  A  review  by  Trotzky  of  Red  troops  in  the  Red 
Square  al  Moscow.  On  the  right  is  the  Kremlin,  Lenin's 
headquarters 


FIVE  DAYS  67 

theatre  so  that  I  receive  additional  rations  also.  These 
things,  you  know,  are  not  difficult  to  arrange!  Thus 
I  am  really  a  gentleman  at  large,  and  living  like  many 
others  at  the  expense  of  a  generous  proletarian  regime. 
My  hobby,"  he  added,  idly,  "is  contre-espionage." 

"What?"  I  cried,  the  exclamation  escaping  me 
inadvertently. 

" ' Contre-esnpionage"  he  repeated,  smiling.  When  he 
smiled  one  end  of  his  crooked  mouth  remained  station- 
ary, while  the  other  seemed  to  jut  right  up  into  his 
cheek.  "Why  should  you  be  surprised?  Tout  le 
monde  est  contre-revolutionnaire:  it  is  merely  a  question 
of  whether  one  is  actively  or  passively  so."  He  took 
from  a  drawer  a  typewritten  sheet  of  paper  and 
handed  it  to  me.  "Does  that  by  any  chance  interest 
you? 

I  glanced  at  the  paper.  The  writing  was  full  of 
uncorrected  orthographical  errors,  showing  it  had 
been  typed  by  an  unpractised  hand  in  extreme  haste. 
Scanning  the  first  few  lines  I  at  once  became  completely 
absorbed  in  the  document.  It  was  a  report,  dated 
two  days  previously,  of  confidential  negotiations 
between  the  Bolshevist  Government  and  the  leaders 
of  non-Bolshevist  parties  with  regard  to  the  possible 
formation  of  a  coalition  Government.  Nothing  came 
of  the  negotiations,  but  the  information  was  of  great 
importance  as  showing  the  nervousness  of  the  Bolshevist 
leaders  at  that  time  and  the  clearly  defined  attitude 
of  the  Socialist-Revolutionary  and  Menshevist  parties 
toward  the  military  counter-revolution. 

"Is  it  authentic?"     I  inquired,  dubiously. 

"That  report,"  replied  Zorinsky,  "is  at  this  moment 
being   considered    by   the   central    committee   of   the 


68  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

Menshevist  party  in  this  city.  It  was  drawn  up  bjr 
a  member  of  the  Menshevist  delegation  and  despatched 
secretly  to  Petrograd,  for  the  Bolsheviks  do  not  permit 
their  opponents  to  communicate  freely  with  each 
other.  I  saw  the  original  and  obtained  a  copy  two 
hours  before  it  reached  the  Menshevist  committee." 

The  suspicion  of  forgery  immediately  arose,  but  I 
could  see  no  reason  for  concocting  the  document  on 
the  off-chance  of  somebody's  being  taken  in  by  it. 
I  handed  it  back. 

"You  may  as  well  keep  it,"  said  Zorinsky.  "I 
should  have  given  it  to  Melnikoff  and  he  would  doubt- 
less have  given  it  to  you.  I  am  expecting  a  further 
report  shortly.  Yes,"  he  added,  nonchalantly,  tap- 
ping the  arm  of  the  desk-chair  in  which  he  sat,  "it  is 
an  amusing  game — confre-espionage.  I  used  to  provide 
your  Captain  Crombie  with  quite  a  lot  of  information. 
But  I'm  not  surprised  you  have  not  heard  of  me  for  I 
always  preferred  to  keep  in  the  background." 

He  produced  a  large  box  of  cigarettes  and,  ringing  a 
bell,  ordered  tea. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  Allies  propose  doing  with 
regard  to  Russia,"  he  observed,  offering  me  a  light.  "It 
seems  to  me  you  might  as  well  leave  us  alone  as  bungle 
about  in  the  way  you  are  doing.  Meanwhile,  all  sorts 
of  people  are  conducting,  or  think  they  are  conducting, 
espionage  underground  in  Russia,  or  planning  to  over- 
throw the  Reds.     Are  you  interested?" 

"Very." 

"Well,  have  you  heard  of  General  F.?"  Zorinsky 
launched  into  an  exposition  of  the  internal  counter- 
revolutionary movement,  of  which  he  appeared  to 
know  extensive  details.     There  existed,  he  said,   bel- 


FIVE  DAYS  69 

ligerent  "groups,"  planning  to  seize  army  stores,  blow 
up  bridges,  or  raid  treasuries.  "They  will  never  do 
anything,"  he  said,  derisively,  "because  they  all  or- 
ganize like  idiots.  The  best  are  the  S.  R.'s  (Socialist- 
Revolutionaries)  :  they  are  fanatics,  like  the  Bolsheviks. 
None  of  the  others  could  tell  you  what  they  want." 

The  maid,  neatly  attired  in  a  clean  white  apron, 
brought  in  tea,  served  with  biscuits,  sugar,  and  lemon. 
Zorinsky  talked  on,  displaying  a  remarkable  knowledge 
of  everybody's  movements  and  actions. 

"Crombie  was  a  fine  fellow,"  he  said,  referring  to  the 
British.  "Pity  he  got  killed.  Things  went  to  pieces. 
The  fellows  who  stayed  after  him  had  a  hard  time. 
The  French  and  Americans  have  all  gone  now  except 
(he  mentioned  a  Frenchman  living  on  the  Vasili  Island) 
but  he  doesn't  do  much.  Marsh  had  hard  luck,  didn't 
he?" 

"Marsh?"  I  put  in.     "So  you  know  him,  too?" 

"  Of  him,"  corrected  Zorinsky.  All  at  once  he  seemed 
to  become  interested  and  leaned  over  the  arm  of  his 
chair  toward  me.  "By  the  way,"  he  said,  in  a  curious 
tone,  "you  don't  happen  to  know  where  Marsh  is, 
do  you?" 

For  a  moment  I  hesitated.  Perhaps  this  man,  who 
seemed  to  know  so  much,  might  be  able  to  help  Marsh. 
But  I  checked  myself.  Intuitively  I  felt  it  wiser  to  say 
nothing. 

"I  have  no  idea,"  I  said,  decisively. 

"Then  how  do  you  know  about  him?" 

"I  heard  in  Finland  of  his  arrest." 

Zorinsky  leaned  back  again  in  his  chair  and  his 
eyes  wandered  out  of  the  window. 

"I  should  have  thought,"  I  observed,  after  a  pause, 


70  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

"that  knowing  all  you  do,  you  would  have  followed  his 
movements." 

"Aha,"  he  exclaimed,  and  in  the  shadow  his  smile 
looked  like  a  black  streak  obliterating  one  half  of  his 
face,  "but  there  is  one  place  I  avoid,  and  that  is 
No.  2  Gordhovaya!  When  any  one  gets  arrested  I 
leave  him  alone.  I  am  wiser  than  to  attempt  to  probe 
the  mysteries  of  that  institution." 

Zorinsky's  words  reminded  me  abruptly  of  Melni- 
koff. 

"But  you  spoke  of  the  possibility  of  saving  Melni- 
koff,"  I  said.  "Is  he  not  in  the  hands  of  No.  2 
Gor6hovaya?,'> 

He  turned  round  and  looked  me  full  in  the  face. 
"  Yes,"  he  said,  seriously,  "  with  Melnikoff  it  is  different. 
We  must  act  at  once  and  leave  no  stone  unturned.  I 
know  a  man  who  will  be  able  to  investigate  and  I'll 
get  him  on  the  job  to-night.  Will  you  not  stay  to 
dinner?  My  wife  will  be  delighted  to  meet  you,  and 
she  understands  discretion." 

Seeing  no  special  reason  to  refuse,  I  accepted  the 
invitation.  Zorinsky  went  to  the  telephone  and  I 
heard  him  ask  someone  to  call  about  nine  o'clock 
"on  an  urgent  matter." 

His  wife,  Elena  Ivanovna,  a  jolly  little  creature,  but 
very  much  of  a  spoilt  child,  appeared  at  dinner  dressed 
in  a  pink  Japanese  kimono.  The  table  was  daintily 
set  and  decked  with  flowers.  As  at  Vera  Alexandrovna's 
cafe,  I  again  felt  myself  out  of  place,  and  apologized 
for  my  uncouth  appearance. 

"Oh!  Don't  excuse  yourself,"  said  Elena  Ivanovna, 
laughing.  "Everyone  is  getting  like  that  nowadays. 
How  dreadful  it  is  to  think  of  all  that  is  happening! 


FIVE  DAYS  71 

Have  the  olden  days  gone  for  ever,   do  you  think? 
Will  these  horrid  people  never  be  overthrown?" 

"You  do  not  appear  to  have  suffered  much,  Elena 
Ivanovna,"  I  remarked. 

"No,  of  course,  I  must  admit  our  troupe  is  treated 
well,"  she  replied.  "Even  flowers,  as  you  see,  though 
you  have  no  idea  how  horrible  it  is  to  have  to  take  a 
bouquet  from  a  great  hulking  sailor  who  wipes  his  nose 
with  his  fingers  and  spits  on  the  floor.  The  theatre 
is  just  full  of  them,  every  night." 

"Your  health,  Pavel  Ivanitch,"  said  Zorinsky, 
lifting  a  glass  of  vodka.  "Ah!"  he  exclaimed  with 
relish,  smacking  his  lips,  "there  are  places  worse  than 
Bolshevia,  I  declare." 

"You  get  plenty  of  vodka?"  I  asked. 

"You  get  plenty  of  everything  if  you  keep  your 
wits  about  you,"  said  Zorinsky.  "Even  without  join- 
ing the  Communist  Party.  I  am  not  a  Communist," 
he  added  (somehow  I  had  not  suspected  it),  "but 
still  I  keep  that  door  open.  What  I  am  afraid  of  is 
that  the  Bolsheviks  may  begin  to  make  their  Com- 
munists work.  That  will  be  the  next  step  in  the  revo- 
lution unless  you  Allies  arrive  and  relieve  them  of 
that  painful  necessity.     Your  health,  Pavel  Ivanitch." 

The  conversation  turned  on  the  Great  War  and 
Zorinsky  recounted  a  number  of  incidents  in  his 
career.  He  also  gave  his  views  of  the  Russian  people 
and  the  revolution.  "The  Russian  peasant,"  he  said, 
"  is  a  brute.  What  he  wants  is  a  good  hiding,  and  unless 
I'm  much  mistaken  the  Communists  are  going  to  give  it 
to  him.  Otherwise  the  Communists  go  under.  In  my 
regiment  we  used  to  smash  a  jaw  now  and  again  on 
principle.     That's    the    only    way    to    make    Russian 


72  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

peasants  fight.  Have  you  heard  about  the  Red  Army? 
Comrade  Trotzky,  you  see,  has  already  abolished  his 
Red  officers,  and  is  inviting — inviting,  if  you  please — 
us,  the  'counter-revolutionary  Tsarist  officer  swine,' 
to  accept  posts  in  his  new  army.  Would  you  ever  be- 
lieve it?  By  God,  I've  half  a  mind  to  join!  Trotzky 
will  order  me  to  flog  the  peasants  to  my  heart's  content. 
Under  Trotzky,  mark  my  words,  I  would  make  a  career 
in  no  time." 

The  dinner  was  a  sumptuous  banquet  for  the  Pet- 
rograd  of  the  period.  There  was  nothing  that  suggested 
want.  Coffee  was  served  in  the  drawing  room,  while 
Zorinsky  kept  up  an  unceasing  flow  of  strange  and 
cynical  but  entertaining  conversation. 

I  waited  till  nearly  ten  for  the  call  from  Zorinsky's 
friend  with  regard  to  Melnikoff,  and  then,  in  view  of 
my  uncertainty  as  to  whether  the  journalist's  house 
would  still  be  open,  I  accepted  Zorinsky's  invitation 
to  stay  overnight.  "There  is  no  reason,"  he  said, 
"why  you  should  not  come  in  here  whenever  you 
like.  We  dine  every  day  at  six  and  you  are  wel- 
come." 

Just  as  I  was  retiring  Zorinsky  was  called  to  the 
telephone  and  returned  explaining  that  he  would  only 
be  able  to  begin  the  investigation  of  Melnikoff's  case 
next  day.  I  was  shown  to  the  spare  bedroom,  where  I 
found  everything  provided  for  me.  Zorinsky  apolo- 
gized that  he  could  not  offer  me  a  hot  bath.  "That 
rascal  dvornik  downstairs,"  he  said,  referring  to  the 
yard  keeper  whose  duty  it  was  to  procure  wood  for  the 
occupants,  "allowed  an  extra  stock  of  fuel  that  I  had 
my  eyes  on  to  be  requisitioned  for  somebody  else,  but 
next  week  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  get  a  good  supply 


FIVE  DAYS  73 

from  the  theatre.     Good-night — and  don't  dream  of 
No.  2  Gorohovaya!" 


The  Extraordinary  Commission,  spoken  of  with 
such  abhorrence  by  Zorinsky,  is  the  most  notorious 
of  all  Bolshevist  institutions.  It  is  an  instrument  of 
terror  and  inquisition  designed  forcibly  to  uproot  all 
anti-Bolshevist  sentiment  through  Lenin's  dominions. 
Its  full  title  is  the  Extraordinary  Commission  for  the 
Suppression  of  the  Counter -Revolution  and  Specula- 
tion, "speculation"  being  every  form  of  private  com- 
merce— the  bugbear  of  Communism.  The  Russian 
title  of  this  institution  is  Tchrezvitchainaya  Kommis- 
sia,  popularly  spoken  of  as  the  Tchrezviichaika,  or 
still  shorter  the  Tche-Ka.  The  headquarters  of  the 
Tche-Ka  in  Petrograd  are  situated  at  No.  2  of  the  street 
named  Gorohovaya,  the  seat  of  the  Prefecture  of  Po- 
lice during  the  Tsar's  regime,  so  that  the  popular 
mode  of  appellation  of  the  Prefecture  by  its  address — 
"No.  2  Gorohovaya''' — has  stuck  to  the  Extraordinary 
Commission  and  will  go  down  as  a  by-word  in  Russian 
history. 

At  the  head  of  No.  2  Gorohovaya  there  sits  a  soviet, 
or  council,  of  some  half-dozen  revolutionary  fanatics 
of  the  most  vehement  type.  With  these  lies  the  final 
word  as  to  the  fate  of  prisoners.  Recommendations 
are  submitted  to  this  soviet  by  "Investigators"  whose 
duty  it  is  to  examine  the  accused,  collect  the  evidence 
and  report  upon  it.  It  is  thus  in  the  hands  of  the 
"Investigators"  that  power  over  prisoners'  lives  act- 
ually lies,  since  they  are  in  a  position  to  turn  the  evi- 
dence one  way  or  the  other,  as  they  choose. 


74         RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

Investigators  vary  considerably.  There  are  some 
who  are  sincere  and  upright,  though  demoniacal  vision- 
aries, cold  as  steel,  cruel,  unpolluted  by  thirst  for 
filthy  lucre,  who  see  the  dawn  of  proletarian  liberty 
only  through  mists  of  non-proletarian  blood.  Such 
men  (or  women)  are  actuated  by  malignant  longing 
for  revenge  for  every  wrong,  real  or  imaginary,  suffered 
in  the  past.  Believing  themselves  to  be  called  to  per- 
form a  sacred  task  in  exterminating  the  "counter- 
revolution," they  can  upon  occasion  be  civil  and  cour- 
teous, even  chivalrous  (though  that  is  rare),  but  never 
impartial.  There  are  other  investigators  who  are 
merely  corrupt,  ready  to  sacrifice  any  proletarian 
interest  for  a  price,  regarding  their  job  purely  as  a  means 
of  amassing  a  fortune  by  the  taking  of  bribes. 

Every  responsible  official  of  the  Extraordinary  Com- 
mission must  be  a  member  of  the  Communist  Party. 
The  lower  staff,  however,  is  composed  of  hirelings, 
frequently  of  foreign  origin,  and  many  of  them  re- 
engaged agents  of  the  Tsarist  police.  The  latter,  who 
lost  their  jobs  as  the  result  of  the  revolution  which 
overthrew  the  Tsarist  autocracy,  have  been  reenlisted 
as  specialists  by  the  Bolsheviks,  and  find  congenial 
occupation  in  spying,  eavesdropping,  and  hounding 
down  rebellious  or  suspected  workmen  just  as  they  did 
when  the  government  was  the  Tsar's  instead  of  Lenin's. 
It  is  this  fact  which  renders  it  almost  impossible  for 
the  Russian  workers  to  organize  a  revolt  against  their 
new  taskmasters.  It  is  thus  that  arose  the  sobriquet 
applied  to  the  Red  regime  of  "Tsarism  inside  out." 
The  faintest  signs  of  sedition  are  immediately  re- 
ported to  the  Tche-Ka  by  its  secret  agents  disguised  as 
workers,  the  ringleaders  are  then  "eliminated"  from  the 


FIVE  DAYS  75 

factory  under  pretext  of  being  conscripted  elsewhere, 
and  they  are  frequently  never  heard  of  afterward. 

The  Extraordinary  Commission  overshadows  all 
else  in  Red  Russia.  No  individual  is  free  from  its 
all-perceiving  eye.  Even  Communists  stand  in  awe 
of  it,  one  of  its  duties  being  to  unearth  black  sheep 
within  the  Party  ranks,  and  since  it  never  errs  on  the 
side  of  leniency  there  have  been  cases  of  execution  of 
true  adherents  of  the  Communist  creed  under  suspi- 
cion of  being  black  sheep.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
black  sheep,  being  imbued  with  those  very  qualities  of 
guile,  trickery,  and  unscrupulous  deceit  which  make 
the  Extraordinary  Commission  so  efficient  a  machine, 
generally  manage  to  get  off. 

One  of  the  most  diabolic  of  the  methods  copied  from 
Tsarist  days  and  employed  by  the  Extraordinary  Com- 
mission against  non-Bolsheviks  is  that  known  in  Russia 
as  provocation.  Provocation  consisted  formerly  in  the 
deliberate  fomentation,  by  agents  who  were  known  as 
agents-provocateurs,  of  revolutionary  sedition  and  plots. 
Such  movements  would  attract  to  themselves  ardent 
revolutionaries  and  when  a  conspiracy  had  matured  and 
was  about  to  culminate  in  some  act  of  terrorism  it 
would  be  betrayed  at  the  last  moment  by  the  agent- 
provocateur,  who  frequently  succeeded  in  making  himself 
the  most  trusted  member  of  the  revolutionary  group. 
Agents-provocateurs  were  recruited  from  all  classes,  but 
chiefly  from  the  intelligentsia.  Imitating  Tsarism  in 
this  as  in  most  of  its  essentials,  the  Bolsheviks  em- 
ploy similar  agents  to  foment  counter-revolutionary 
conspiracies  and  they  reward  munificently  a  pro- 
vocateur who  yields  to  the  insatiable  Tche-Ka  a  plenti- 
ful crop  of  "counter-revolutionary"  heads. 


76  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

As  under  the  Tsar,  every  invention  of  exquisite  vil- 
lainy is  practised  to  extract  from  captives,  thus  or 
otherwise  seized,  the  secret  of  accomplices  or  sym- 
pathizers. Not  without  reason  was  Marsh  haunted 
with  fears  that  his  wife,  nerve-racked  and  doubtless 
underfed  if  fed  at  all,  might  be  subjected  to  treatment 
that  would  test  her  self-control  to  the  extreme.  She 
did  not  know  where  he  was,  but  she  knew  all  his  friends 
and  acquaintances,  an  exhaustive  list  of  whom  would 
be  insistently  demanded.  She  had  already,  according 
to  the  Policeman,  given  confused  replies,  which  were 
bound  to  complicate  her  case.  The  inquisition  would 
become  ever  more  relentless,  until  at  last 

On  the  day  following  my  visit  to  Zorinsky  I  appeared 
punctually  at  eleven  o'clock  at  the  empty  flat  with  "No. 
5"  chalked  on  the  back  door.  It  was  not  far  from 
Zorinsky's,  but  I  approached  it  by  a  circuitous  route, 
constantly  looking  round  to  assure  myself  I  was  not  be- 
ing followed.  The  filthy  yard  was  as  foul  and  noisome 
as  ever,  vying  in  stench  with  the  gloomy  staircase,  and 
I  met  no  one.  Maria,  no  longer  suspicious,  opened  the 
door  in  answer  to  my  three  knocks.  "Peter  Ivanitch  is 
not  here  yet,"  she  said,  "but  he  should  be  in  any  min- 
ute."    So  I  sat  down  to  read  the  Soviet  newspapers. 

Marsh's  three  thumps  at  the  back  door  were  not 
long  in  making  themselves  heard.  Maria  hurried 
along  the  passage,  I  heard  the  lock  creak,  the  door 
stiffly  tugged  open,  and  then  suddenly  a  little  stifled 
cry  from  Maria.  I  rose  quickly.  Marsh  burst,  or 
rather  tumbled,  into  the  room  with  his  head  and  face 
bound  up  in  a  big  black  shawl.  As  he  laboriously 
unwound  it  I  had  a  vision  of  Maria  in  the  doorway,  her 
fist  in  her  mouth,  staring  at  him  speechless  and  terrified. 


FIVE  DAYS  77 

It  was  a  strange  Marsh  that  emerged  from  the  folds 
of  the  black  shawl.  The  invincible  smile  struggled 
to  maintain  itself,  but  his  eyes  were  bleared  and  wan- 
dered aimlessly,  and  he  shook  with  agitation  despite  his 
efforts  to  retain  self-control. 

"My  wife "  he  stammered,  half -coherently,  drop- 
ping into  a  chair  and  fumbling  feverishly  for  his 
handkerchief.  "She  was  subjected  yesterday — seven 
hours'  cross-examination — uninterruptedly — no  food — 
not  even  allowed  to  sit  down — until  finally  she  swooned. 
She  has  said  something — I  don't  know  what.  I  am 
afraid "  He  rose  and  strode  up  and  down,  mum- 
bling so  that  I  could  scarcely  understand,  but  I  caught 
the  word  "indiscretion" — and  understood  all  he  wished 
to  say. 

After  a  few  moments  he  calmed  and  sat  down  again. 
"The  Policeman  came  home  at  midnight,"  he  said, 
"and  told  me  all  about  it.  I  questioned  and  questioned 
again  and  am  sure  he  is  not  lying.  The  Bolsheviks 
believe  she  was  implicated  in  some  conspiracy,  so  they 
made  her  write  three  autobiographies,  and"  (he  paused) 
"they — are  all  different.  Now — she  is  being  compelled 
to  explain  discrepancies,  but  she  can't  remember  any- 
thing and  her  mind  seems  to  be  giving.  Meanwhile, 
the  Bolsheviks  are  resolved  to  eradicate,  once  and  for 
all,  all  'English  machinations,'  as  they  call  it,  in  Russia. 
They  know  I've  shaved  and  changed  my  appearance 
and  a  special  detachment  of  spies  is  on  the  hunt  for 
me,  with  a  big  reward  offered  to  the  finder." 

He  paused  and  swallowed  at  a  gulp  the  glassful  of 
tea  Maria  had  placed  beside  him. 

"Look  here,  old  man,"  he  said,  suddenly,  laying  his 
hands  out  flat  on  the  table  in  front  of  him,  "I  am  going 


78  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

to  ask  you  to  help  me  out.  The  'Policeman'  says 
it's  worse  for  her  that  I  should  be  here  than  if  I  go. 
So  I'm  going.  Once  they  know  I've  fled,  the  Policeman 
says,  they  will  cease  plaguing  her,  and  it  may  be  easier 
to  effect  an  escape.  Tell  me,  will  you  take  the  job 
over  for  me?" 

''My  dear  fellow,"  I  said,  "I  had  already  resolved 
that  I  would  attempt  nothing  else  until  we  had  safely 
got  your  wife  out  of  prison.  And  the  day  she  gets  out 
I  will  escort  her  over  the  frontier  myself.  I  shall  have 
to  go  to  Finland  to  report,  anyway." 

He  was  going  to  thank  me  but  I  shut  him  up. 

"When  will  you  go?"  I  asked. 

"To-morrow.  There  are  a  number  of  things  to  be 
done.     Have  you  got  much  money?*' 

"Enough  for  myself,  but  no  reserve." 

"I  will  leave  you  all  I  have,"  he  said,  "and  to-day 
I'll  go  and  see  a  business  friend  of  mine  who  may  be 
able  to  get  some  more.  He  is  a  Jew,  but  is  absolutely 
trustworthy." 

"By  the  way,"  I  asked,  when  this  matter  was  decided, 
"ever  heard  of  a  Captain  Zorinsky?" 

"Zorinsky?     Zorinsky?     Xo.     Who  is  he?" 

"A  fellow  who  seems  to  know  a  lot  about  you," 
I  said.  "Says  he  is  a  friend  of  Melnikoff's,  though  I 
never  heard  Melnikoff  mention  him.  Yesterday  he 
was  particularly  anxious  to  know  your  present  address." 

"You  didn't  tell  him?"   queried  Marsh,  nervously. 

"What  do  you  take  me  for?" 

"You  can  tell  him  day  after  to-morrow,"  he  laughed. 

Marsh  went  off  to  his  business  friend,  saying  he  would 
premonish  him  of  my  possible  visit,  and  stayed  there 
all   day.     I   remained   at    "Xo.    5"   and   wrote  up   in 


FIVE  DAYS  79 

minute  handwriting  on  tracing  paper  a  preliminary 
report  on  the  general  situation  in  Petrograd,  which  I 
intended  to  ask  Marsh  to  take  with  him.  To  be  pre- 
pared for  all  contingencies  I  gave  the  little  scroll  to 
Maria  when  it  was  finished  and  she  hid  it  at  the  bot- 
tom of  a  pail  of  ashes. 

Next  morning  Marsh  turned  up  at  "No.  5"  dressed 
in  a  huge  sheepskin  coat  with  a  fur  collar  half  engulf- 
ing his  face.  This  was  the  disguise  in  which  he  was 
going  to  escape  across  the  frontier.  As  passport  he 
had  procured  the  "certificate  of  identification"  of  his 
coachman,  who  had  come  into  Petrograd  from  the 
expropriated  farm  to  see  Maria.  With  his  face  pur- 
posely dirtied,  and  decorated  with  three  days'  growth 
of  reddish  beard,  a  driver's  cap  that  covered  his  ears, 
and  a  big  sack  on  his  back  to  add  a  peasant  touch  to 
his  get-up,  Marsh  looked — well,  like  nothing  on  earth, 
to  use  the  colloquial  expression!  It  was  a  get-up  that 
defied  description,  yet  in  a  crowd  of  peasants  would 
not  attract  particular  attention. 

Confident  that  he  was  doing  the  right  thing  by 
quitting,  Marsh  had  completely  recovered  his  former 
good  spirits  and  joked  boisterously  as  he  put  a  finishing 
touch  here  and  there  to  his  disguise.  I  gave  him  my 
report  and  folding  it  flat  into  a  packet  about  two 
inches  square  he  removed  one  of  his  top  boots  and  hid 
it  inside  the  sole  of  his  sock.  "The  population  of  hell 
will  be  increased  by  several  new  arrivals  before  the  Bol- 
sheviks find  that,"  he  said,  pulling  on  his  boot  again 
and  slipping  a  heavy  revolver  inside  his  trousers. 

Poor  Maria  was  terribly  distressed  at  Marsh's 
departure.  So  was  the  coachman,  who  could  find 
no   terms  wherein  to  express  his  disgust  and   indig- 


80  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

nation  at  the  conduct  of  the  elder  of  the  two  stable- 
boys,  who  had  joined  the  Bolsheviks,  assisted  in  sack- 
ing Marsh's  country  house  and  farm,  and  was  now 
appointed  Commissar  in  supreme  control  of  the  estab- 
lishment. The  coachman  exhausted  a  luxuriant  fund 
of  expletives  in  describing  how  the  stable  boy  now 
sprawled  in  Marsh's  easy-chairs,  spitting  on  the  floor, 
how  all  the  photographs  had  been  smashed  to  pieces, 
and  the  drawing-room  carpets  littered  with  dirt, 
cigarette-ends,  and  rubbish.  At  all  of  which  Marsh 
roared  with  laughter,  much  to  the  perplexity  of  the 
coachman  and  Maria. 

With  trembling  hands  Maria  placed  a  rough  meal  on 
the  table,  while  Marsh  repeated  to  me  final  details  of 
the  route  he  was  taking  and  by  which  I  should  follow 
with  his  wife.  "Fita,"  he  said,  mentioning  the  name 
of  the  Finnish  guide  on  whom  he  was  relying,  "lives 
a  mile  from  Grusino  station.  When  you  get  out  of 
the  train  walk  in  the  other  direction  till  everybody  has 
dispersed,  then  turn  back  and  go  by  the  forest  path 
straight  to  his  cottage.     He  will  tell  you  what  to  do." 

At  last  it  was  time  to  start.  Marsh  and  I  shook 
hands  and  wished  each  other  good-luck,  and  I  went 
out  first,  so  as  not  to  witness  the  pathetic  parting 
from  his  humble  friends.  I  heard  him  embrace  them 
both,  heard  Maria's  convulsive  sobs — and  I  hurried 
down  the  stone  stairway  and  out  into  the  street.  I 
walked  rapidly  to  the  street-car  terminal  in  the  Mi- 
hailovsky  Square,  and  wandered  round  it  till  Marsh 
appeared.  We  made  no  sign  of  recognition.  He  jumped 
on  one  of  the  cars,  and  I  scrambled  on  to  the  next. 

It  was  dark  by  the  time  we  reached  the  distant 
Okhta  railway  station,  a  straggling  wooden  structure 


FIVE  DAYS  81 

on  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  But  standing  on  the 
wooden  boards  of  the  rough  platform  I  easily  discerned 
the  massive  figure,  pushing  and  scrambling  amid  a 
horde  of  peasants  toward  the  already  over-crowded 
coaches.  Might  is  right  in  Red  Russia,  as  everywhere 
else.  The  Soviet  Government  has  not  yet  nation- 
alized muscle.  I  watched  a  huge  bulk  of  sheepskin, 
with  a  dangling  and  bouncing  gray  sack,  raise  itself 
by  some  mysterious  process  of  elevation  above  the  heads 
and  shoulders  of  the  seething  mass  around  and  trans- 
plant itself  on  to  the  buffers.  Thence  it  rose  to  the 
roof,  and  finally,  assisted  by  one  or  two  admiring 
individuals  already  ensconced  within  the  coach,  it 
lowered  itself  down  the  side  and  disappeared  through 
the  black  aperture  of  what  had  once  been  a  window. 
I  hung  around  for  half  an  hour  or  so,  until  a  series  of 
prolonged  and  piercing  whistles  from  the  antediluvian- 
looking  locomotive  announced  that  the  driver  had  that 
day  condescended  to  set  his  engine  in  motion.  There 
was  a  jolt,  a  series  of  violent  creaks,  the  loud  ejacula- 
tions of  passengers,  a  scramble  of  belated  peasants  to 
hook  themselves  on  to  protruding  points  in  the  vicinity 
of  steps,  buffers,  footboards,  etc.,  and  the  train  with 
its  load  of  harassed  animality  slowly  rumbled  forward 
out  of  the  station. 

I  stood  and  watched  it  pass  into  the  darkness  and, 
as  it  vanished,  the  cold,  the  gloom,  the  universal  dilapi- 
dation seemed  to  become  intensified.  I  still  stood, 
listening  to  the  distant  rumble  of  the  train,  until  I 
found  myself  alone  upon  the  platform.  Then  I  turned, 
and  as  1  slowly  retraced  my  steps  into  town  an  aching 
sense  of  emptiness  pervaded  all  around,  and  the  future 
seemed  nothing  but  impenetrable  night. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    GREEN    SHAWL 

I  will  pass  briefly  over  the  days  that  followed 
Marsh's  flight.  They  were  concentrated  upon  efforts 
to  get  news  of  Mrs.  Marsh  and  Melnikoff.  There 
were  frequent  hold-ups  in  the  street:  at  two  points 
along  the  Nevsky  Prospect  all  passengers  were  stopped 
to  have  their  documents  and  any  parcels  they  were 
carrying  examined,  but  a  cursory  glance  at  my  pass- 
port of  the  Extraordinary  Commission  sufficed  to 
satisfy  the  militiamen's  curiosity. 

I  studied  all  the  soviet  literature  I  had  time  to  de- 
vour, attended  public  meetings,  and  slept  in  turn  at 
the  homes  of  my  new  acquaintances,  making  it  a 
rule,  however,  never  to  mention  anywhere  the  secret  of 
other   night-haunts. 

The  meetings  I  attended  were  all  Communist  meet- 
ings, at  each  of  which  the  same  banal  propagandist 
phraseology  was  untiringly  reeled  off.  The  vulgar 
violence  of  Bolshevist  rhetoric  and  the  triumphant 
inaccuracy  of  statement  due  to  the  prohibition  of  criti- 
cism soon  became  wearisome.  In  vain  I  sought  meetings 
for  discussion,  or  where  the  people's  point  of  view 
would  be  expressed:  freedom  of  speech  granted  by  the 
revolution  had  come  to  mean  freedom  for  Bolshevist 
speech  only  and  prison  for  any  other.  Some  of  the 
meetings,  however,  were  interesting,  especially  when 
9.   prominent   leader   such   as   Trotzky,    Zinoviev,    or 


THE  GREEN  SHAWL  83 

Lunacharsky  spoke,  for  the  unrivalled  powers  of  speech 
of  a  few  of  the  leading  Bolsheviks,  who  possess  in  a 
marked  degree  "the  fatal  gift  of  eloquence,"  had  an 
almost  irresistible  attraction. 

During  these  days  also  I  cultivated  the  friendship 
of  the  ex-journalist,  whom,  despite  his  timidity,  I 
found  to  be  a  man  of  taste  and  culture.  He  had  an 
extensive  library  in  several  languages,  and  spent  his 
leisure  hours  writing  (if  I  remember  rightly)  a  treatise 
on  philosophy,  which,  for  some  reason  or  other,  he  was 
convinced  would  be  regarded  as  "counter-revolutionary" 
and  kept  it  locked  up  and  hidden  under  a  lot  of  books 
in  a  closet.  I  tried  to  persuade  him  of  the  contrary 
and  urged  him  even  to  take  his  manuscript  to  the  de- 
partment of  education,  in  the  hope  that  some  one  of  the 
less  virulent  type  there  might  be  impressed  with  the 
work  and  obtain  for  him  concessions  as  regards  leisure 
and  rations. 

When  I  visited  him  the  day  after  Marsh's  flight  I 
found  him,  still  wrapped  in  his  green  coat,  running 
feverishly  from  stove  to  stove  poking  and  coaxing  the 
newly  lit  fires.  He  was  chuckling  with  glee  at  the  re- 
turn of  forgotten  warmth  and,  in  truly  Russian  style, 
had  lit  every  stove  in  his  flat  and  was  wasting  fuel  as 
fast  as  he  possibly  could. 

"What  the  devil  is  the  use  of  that?"  I  said  in  dis- 
gust. "Where  the  deuce  do  you  think  you  will  get 
your  next  lot  of  wood  from?  It  doesn't  rain  wood  in 
these  regions,  does  it?" 

But  my  sarcasm  was  lost  on  Dmitri  Konstantino- 
vitch,  in  whose  system  of  economy,  economy  had  no 
place.  To  his  intense  indignation  I  opened  all  the 
grates  and,  dragging  out  the  half -burnt  logs  and  glow- 


84  RED  DUSK  AXD  THE  MORROW 

ing  cinders,  concentrated  them  in  one  big  blaze  in  the 
dining-room  stove,  which  also  heated  his  bedroom. 

"That's  just  like  an  Englishman,"  he  said  in  un- 
speakable disgust  as  he  shuffled  round  watching  me  at 
work.  "You  understand,"  I  said,  resolutely,  "this 
and  the  kitchen  are  the  only  stoves  that  are  ever  to 
be  heated." 

Of  course  I  found  his  larder  empty  and  he  had  no 
prospect  of  food  except  the  scanty  and  unappetizing 
dinner  at  four  o'clock  at  the  local  communal  eating- 
house  two  doors  away.  So,  the  weather  being  fine, 
I  took  him  out  to  the  little  private  dining  room  I  had 
eaten  at  on  the  day  of  my  arrival.  Here  I  gave  him 
the  biggest  meal  that  miniature  establishment  could 
provide,  and  intoxicated  by  the  unaccustomed  fumes  of 
gruel,  carrots,  and  coffee  he  forgot — and  forgave  me — 
the  stoves. 

A  day  or  two  later  the  journalist  was  sufficiently 
well  to  return  to  work,  and  taking  the  spare  key  of  his 
flat  I  let  myself  in  whenever  I  liked.  I  took  him 
severely  to  task  in  his  household  affairs,  and  as  the 
result  of  our  concerted  labours  we  saved  his  untidy 
home  from  degenerating  completely  into  a  pigsty. 
Here  I  met  some  of  the  people  mentioned  by  Marsh. 
The  journalist  was  very  loth  to  invite  them,  but  in  a 
week  or  so  I  had  so  firm  a  hold  over  him  that  by  the 
mere  hint  of  not  returning  any  more  I  could  reduce  him 
to  complete  submission.  If  I  disappeared  for  as  much 
as  three  days  he  was  overcome  with  anxiety. 

Some  people  I  met  embarrassed  me  not  a  little  by 
regarding  me  as  a  herald  of  the  approaching  Allies  and 
an  earnest  of  the  early  triumph  of  the  militarist  counter- 
revolution.    Their    attitude    resembled    at    the    other 


THE  GREEN  SHAWL  85 

extreme  that  recently  adopted  by  the  Bolshevist 
Government  toward  impartial  foreign  labour  delegates, 
who  were  embarrassingly  proclaimed  to  be  forerunners 
of  the  world-revolution. 

One  evening  the  journalist  greeted  me  with  looks  of 
deep  cunning  and  mystification.  I  could  see  he  had 
something  on  his  mind  he  was  bursting  to  say.  When 
at  last  we  were  seated,  as  usual  huddled  over  the  dining- 
room  stove,  he  leaned  over  toward  my  chair,  tapped 
me  on  the  knee  to  draw  my  very  particular  attention, 
and  began. 

"Michael  Mihailovitch,"  he  said  in  an  undertone, 
as  though  the  chairs  and  table  might  betray  the 
secret,  "I  have  a  won-der-ful  idea!"  He  struck  one 
side  of  his  thin  nose  with  his  forefinger  to  indicate  the 
wondrousness  of  his  idea.  "To-day  I  and  some  col- 
leagues of  former  days,"  he  went  on,  his  finger  still 
applied  to  the  side  of  his  nose,  "determined  to  start  a 
newspaper.  Yes,  yes,  a  secret  newspaper — to  prepare 
the  way  for  the  Allies!" 

"And  who  is  going  to  print  it?"  I  asked,  fully 
impressed  with  the  wondrousness  of  his  idea. 

"The  Bolshevist  Izvestia,"  he  said,  "is  printed  on  the 
presses  of  the  Novoye  Vremya*  but  all  the  printer-men 
being  strongly  against  the  Bolsheviks,  we  will  ask 
them  to  print  a  leaflet  on  the  sly." 

"And  who  will  pay  for  it?"  I  asked,  amused  by  his 
simplicity. 

"Well,  here  you  can  help,  Michael  Mihailovitch," 
said  the  journalist,  rather  as  though  he  were  conferring 
an  honour  upon  me.  "You  would  not  refuse,  would 
you?     Last  summer  the  English " 

*A  prominent  pre-revolutionary  journal 


86  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

"Well,  apart  from  technique,"  I  interrupted,  "why 
are  you  so  certain  of  the  Allies?" 

Dmitri  Konstantinovitch  stared  at  me. 

"But  you "  he  began,   then   stopped  abruptly. 

There  followed  one  of  those  pauses  that  are  more 
eloquent   than  speech. 

"I  see,"  I  said  at  last.  "Listen,  Dmitri  Konstan- 
tinovitch, I  will  tell  you  a  story.  In  the  north  of  your 
vast  country  there  is  a  town  called  Archangel.  I  was 
there  in  the  summer  and  I  was  there  again  recently. 
"When  I  was  there  in  the  summer  the  entire  population 
was  crying  passionately  for  the  Allies  to  intervene  and 
save  them  from  a  Bolshevist  hooligan  clique,  and  when 
at  last  the  city  was  occupied  the  path  of  the  British 
General  was  strewn  with  flowers  as  he  stepped  ashore. 
But  when  I  returned  some  weeks  after  the  occupation, 
did  I  find  jubilation  and  contentment,  do  you  think? 
I  am  sorry  to  say  I  did  not.  I  found  strife,  intrigue, 
and  growing  bitterness. 

"A  democratic  government  was  nominally  in  power 
with  the  venerable  revolutionist  Tchaikovsky,  protege 
of  the  Allies,  at  its  head.  Well,  one  night  a  group  of 
officers — Russian  officers — summarily  arrested  this 
government  established  by  the  Allies,  while  the  allied 
military  leaders  slyly  shut  one  eye  so  as  not  to  see  what 
was  going  on.  The  hapless  democratic  ministers  were 
dragged  out  of  their  beds,  whisked  away  by  automo- 
liilr  to  a  waiting  steam  launch,  and  carried  off  to  are- 
mote  island  in  the  White  Sea  where  they  were  uncere- 
moniously deposited  and  left!  Sounds  like  an  exploit  of 
Captain  Kidd,  doesn't  it?  Only  two  escaped,  because 
they  happened  that  evening  to  be  dining  with  the  Ameri- 
can Ambassador,  and  he  concealed  them  in  his  bedroom. 


THE  GREEN  SHAWL  87 

"Next  morning  the  city  was  startled  by  a  sensational 
announcement  posted  on  the  walls.  'By  order  of  the 
Russian  Command,'  it  ran,  'the  incompetent  govern- 
ment has  been  deposed,  and  the  supreme  power  in  North 
Russia  is  henceforth  vested  exclusively  in  the  hands 
of  the  military  Commander  of  the  occupying  forces.' 

"There  was  a  hell  of  a  hubbub,  I  can  tell  you!  For 
who  was  to  untangle  the  knot?  The  allied  military  had 
connived  at  the  kidnapping  by  Russian  plotters  of  a 
Russian  government  established  by  order  of  the  Allies! 
The  diplomats  and  the  military  were  already  at  logger- 
heads and  now  they  were  like  fighting-cocks!  Finally, 
after  two  days'  wrangling,  and  when  all  the  factories 
went  on  strike,  it  was  decided  that  the  whole  proceeding 
had  been  most  unseemly  and  undemocratic.  'Diplo- 
macy' triumphed,  a  cruiser  was  despatched  to  pick  up 
the  wretched  ministers  shivering  on  the  remote  White 
Sea  island,  and  brought  them  back  (scarcely  a  triumphal 
procession!)  to  Archangel,  where  they  were  restored  to 
the  tarnished  dignity  of  their  ministerial  pedestals, 
and  went  on  trying  to  pretend  to  be  a  government." 

The  journalist  gaped  open-mouthed  as  I  told  him 
this  story.  "And  what  is  happening  there  now?"  he 
asked  after  a  pause.  "I  am  rather  afraid  to  think  of 
what  is  happening  now,"  I  replied. 

"And  you  mean,"  he  said,  slowly,  "the  Allies  are 
not " 

"I  do  not  know — they  may  come,  and  they  may 
not."  I  realized  I  was  rudely  tearing  down  a  radiant 
castle  the  poor  journalist  had  built  in  the  air. 

"But  why — Michael  Mihailovitch — are  you ?" 

"Why  am  I  here?"  I  said,  completing  his  unfinished 
question.     "Simply  because  I  wanted  to  be." 


88  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

Dmitri  Konstantinovitch  gasped.  "  You — wanted  to 
be  here?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  smiling  involuntarily  at  his  in- 
credulity. "I  wanted  to  be  here  and  took  the  first 
chance  that  offered  itself  to  come."  If  I  had  told  him 
that  after  mature  consideration  I  had  elected  to  spend 
eternity  in  Gehenna  rather  than  in  the  felicity  of 
celestial  domains  I  should  not  have  astonished  the  in- 
credulous journalist  more. 

"By  the  way,"  I  said  rather  cruelly,  as  a  possibility 
occurred  to  me,  "don't  go  and  blurt  that  Archangel 
story  everywhere,  or  you'll  have  to  explain  how  you 
heard  it." 

But  he  did  not  heed  me.  I  had  utterly  demolished 
his  castle  of  hope.  I  felt  very  sorry  as  I  watched 
him.  "Maybe  they  will  learn,"  I  added,  wishing  to 
say  something  kind,  "and  not  repeat  mistakes  else- 
where." 

Learn?  As  I  looked  into  the  journalist's  tear- 
dimmed  eyes,  how  heartily  I  wished  they  would ! 


"While  the  journalist's  home  until  my  arrival  was  only 
on  the  downward  grade  toward  pigstydom,  that  of 
the  Policeman  had  already  long  since  arrived  at  the 
thirty-third  degree.  His  rooms  were  in  an  abominable 
condition,  and  quite  unnecessarily  so.  The  sanitary 
arrangements  in  many  houses  were  in  a  sad  state  of 
dilapidation,  but  people  took  urgent  measures  to  main- 
tain what  cleanliness  they  could.  Not  so  the  Policeman, 
who  lived  in  conditions  too  loathsome  for  words  and 
took  no  steps  to  check  the  progressive  accumulation  of 
dust,  dirt,  and  filth. 


THE  GREEN  SHAWL  89 

He  kept  a  Chinese  servant,  who  appeared  to  be 
permanently  on  strike,  and  whom  he  would  alternately 
caressingly  wheedle  and  tempestuously  upbraid,  so 
far  as  I  could  see  with  equal  inefTect.  In  the  nether 
regions  of  the  house  he  occupied  there  lived,  or  fre- 
quently gathered,  a  bevy  of  Chinamen  who  loafed  about 
the  hall  or  peeped  through  gratings  up  the  cellar  stair- 
ways. There  was  also  a  mysterious  lady,  whom  I 
never  saw,  but  whom  I  would  hear  occasionally  as  I 
mounted  the  stairs,  shrieking  in  a  hysterical  catter- 
waul,  and  apparently  menacing  the  little  Policeman 
with  physical  assault.  Sometimes  he  would  snarl  back, 
and  one  such  scene  d' amour  was  terminated  by  a  violent 
crash  of  crockery.  But  the  affable  female,  whom  I 
somehow  figured  as  big  and  muscular  with  wild,  floating 
hair,  a  sort  of  Medusa,  had  always  vanished  by  the  time 
I  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  the  loud  door-slam 
that  coincided  with  her  disappearance  was  followed  by 
death-like  silence.  The  little  Policeman,  whose  bearing 
was  always  apologetic,  would  accost  me  as  though 
nothing  were  amiss,  while  the  insubordinate  Chinese 
servant,  if  he  condescended  to  open  the  front  door, 
would  stand  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase  with  an  enigmati- 
cal sneering  grin  spread  over  his  evil  features.  It  was 
altogether  an  uncanny  abode. 

Marsh  had  prepared  the  way,  and  the  Policeman 
received  me  with  profuse  demonstrations  of  regard.  I 
was  fortunately  not  obliged  to  accept  his  proffered 
hospitality  often,  but  when  I  did,  it  was  touching  to 
note  how  he  would  put  himself  out  in  the  effort  to  make 
me  as  comfortable  as  the  revolting  circumstances 
would  permit.  Despite  his  despicable  character,  his 
cringing  deceitfulness,  and  mealy-mouthed  flattery,  he 


90  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

still  possessed  human  feelings,  showed  at  times  a  gen- 
uine desire  to  please  not  merely  for  the  sake  of  gain, 
and  was  sincerely  and  passionately  fond  of  his  children, 
who  lived  in  another  house. 

He  was  excessively  vain  and  boastful.  In  the  course 
of  his  career  he  had  accumulated  a  collection  of  signed 
photographs  of  notables,  and  loved  to  demonstrate 
them,  reiterating  for  the  fiftieth  time  how  Count  Witte 
said  this,  Stolypin  said  that,  and  so-and-so  said  some- 
thing else.  I  used  to  humour  him,  listening  gravely,  and 
he  interpreted  my  endurance  as  ability  to  venerate  the 
great  ones  of  the  earth,  and  an  appreciation  of  his 
illustrious  connections,  and  was  mightily  pleased.  He 
was  full  of  grandiose  schemes  for  the  downthrow  of 
the  Red  regime,  and  the  least  sign  of  so  much  as  patience 
with  his  suggestions  excited  his  enthusiasm  and  inspired 
his  genius  for  self-praise  and  loquacity. 

"Your  predecessors,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  say  so," 
he  launched  forth  on  the  occasion  of  my  first  visit, 
"were  pitifully  incompetent.  Even  Mr.  Marsh,  de- 
lightful man  though  he  was,  hardly  knew  his  business. 
Xow  you,  Michael  Ivanitch,  I  can  see,  are  a  man  of 
understanding — a  man  of  quite  different  stamp.  I 
presented  a  scheme  to  Marsh,  for  instance,"  and  he 
bent  over  confidentially,  "for  dividing  Petrograd  into 
ten  sections,  seizing  each  one  in  turn,  and  thus  throwing 
the  Bolsheviks  out.  It  was  sure  of  success,  and  yet 
Mr.  Marsh  would  not  hear  of  it." 

"How  were  you  going  to  do  it?" 

He  seized  a  sheet  of  paper  and  began  hastily  making 
sketches  to  illustrate  Lis  wonderful  scheme.  The  capi- 
tal was  all  neatly  divided  up,  the  chiefs  of  each  district 
were  appointed  to  their  respective  posts,  he  had  the 


THE  GREEN  SHAWL  91 

whole  police  force  at  his  beck  and  call  and  about  half 
a  dozen  regiments. 

"Give  but  the  signal,"  he  cried,  dramatically,  "and 
this  city  of  Peter  the  Great  is  ours." 

"And  the  supreme  commander?"  I  queried,  "who 
will  be  Governor  of  the  liberated  city?" 

The  sanguine  little  Policeman  smiled  a  trifle  con- 
fusedly. "Oh,  we  will  find  a  Governor,"  he  said, 
rather  sheepishly,  hesitant  to  utter  the  innermost  hopes 
of  his  heart.     "Perhaps  you,  Michael  Ivanitch " 

But  this  magnanimous  offer  was  mere  formal  cour- 
tesy. It  was  plain  that  I  was  expected  to  content 
myself  with  the  secondary  role  of  kingmaker. 

"Well,  if  all  is  so  far  ready,"  I  said,  "why  don't  you 
blow  the  trumpets  and  we  will  watch  the  walls  of 
Jericho  fall?" 

The  little  man  twirled  his  moustache,  smirking 
apologetically.  "But,  Michael  Ivanitch,"  he  said, 
growing  bold  and  bordering  even  on  familiarity  " — er 
— funds,  don't  you  know — after  all,  nowadays,  you 
know,  you  get  nowhere  without — er — money,  do  you? 
Of  course,  you  quite  understand,  Michael  Ivanitch,  that 
I,  personally " 

"How  much  did  you  tell  Marsh  it  would  cost?"  I 
interrupted,  very  curious  to  see  what  he  would  say.  He 
had  not  expected  the  question  to  be  put  in  this  way. 
Like  a  clock  ticking  I  could  hear  his  mind  calculating 
the  probability  of  Marsh's  having  told  me  the  sum, 
and  whether  he  might  safely  double  it  in  view  of  my 
greater  susceptibility. 

"I  think  with  100,000  roubles  we  might  pull  it  off," 
he  replied,  tentatively,  eyeing  me  cautiously  to  see  how 
I  took  it.     I  nodded  silently.     "Of  course,  we  might 


92  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

do  it  for  a  little  less,"  he  added  as  if  by  afterthought, 
"but  then  there  would  be  subsequent  expenses." 

"Well,  well,"  I  replied,  indulgently,  "we  will  see. 
We'll  talk  about  it  again  sometime." 

"There  is  no  time  like  the  present,  Michael  Ivanitch." 

"But  there  are  other  things  to  think  of.  We  will 
speak  of  it  again  when " 

"When ?" 

"  When  you  have  got  Mrs.  Marsh  out  of  prison." 

The  little  man  appeared  completely  to  shrivel  up 
when  thus  dragged  brusquely  back  into  the  world  of 
crude  reality.  He  flushed  for  a  moment,  it  seemed  to 
me,  with  anger,  but  pulled  himself  together  at  once  and 
reassumed  his  original  manner  of  demonstrative  ser- 
vility. 

"At  present  we  have  business  on  hand,  Alexei  Fom- 
itch,"  I  added,  "and  I  wish  to  talk  first  about  that. 
How  do  matters  stand?" 

The  Policeman  said  his  agents  were  busily  at  work, 
studying  the  ground  and  the  possibilities  of  Mrs. 
Marsh's  escape.  The  whole  town,  he  stated,  was 
being  searched  for  Marsh,  and  the  inability  to  unearth 
him  had  already  given  rise  to  the  suspicion  that  he  had 
fled.  In  a  day  or  two  the  news  would  be  confirmed  by 
Bolshevist  agents  in  Finland.  He  foresaw  an  allevia- 
tion of  Mrs.  Marsh's  lot  owing  to  the  probable  cessa- 
tion of  cross-examinations.  It  only  remained  to  see 
whether  she  would  be  transferred  to  another  cell  or 
prison,  and  then  plans  for  escape  might  be  laid. 

"Fire  ahead,"  I  said  in  conclusion.  "And  when 
Mrs.  Marsh  is  free — we  will  perhaps  discuss  other 
matters." 

"There  is  no  time  like  the  present,  Michael  Ivanitch," 


THE  GREEN  SHAWL  93 

repeated  the  little  Policeman,  but  his  voice  sounded 
forlorn. 


Meanwhile,  what  of  MelnikofF? 

Zorinsky  was  all  excitement  when  I  called  him  up. 

"How  is  your  brother?"  I  said  over  the  'phone. 
"Was  the  accident  serious?  Is  there  any  hope  of  re- 
covery?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  came  the  reply.  "The  doctor  says  he 
fears  he  will  be  in  hospital  some  time,  but  the  chances 
are  he  will  get  over  it." 

"Where  has  he  been  put?" 

"He  is  now  in  a  private  sanitarium  in  Gorohovaya 
Street,  but  we  hope  he  will  be  removed  to  some  larger 
and  more  comfortable  hospital." 

"The  conditions,  I  hope,  are  good?" 

"As  good  as  we  can  arrange  for  under  present-day 
circumstances.  For  the  time  being  he  is  in  a  separate 
room  and  on  limited  diet.  But  can  you  not  come 
round  this  evening,  Pavel  Ivanitch?" 

"Thank  you,  I  am  afraid  I  have  a  meeting  of  our 
House  Committee  to  attend,  but  I  could  come  to- 
morrow." 

"Good.  Come  to-morrow.  I  have  news  of  Leo, 
who  is  coming  to  Petrograd." 

"My  regards  to  Elena  Ivanovna." 

"Thanks.     Good-bye." 

"Good-bye." 

The  telephone  was  an  inestimable  boon,  but  one 
that  had  to  be  employed  with  extreme  caution.  From 
time  to  time  at  moments  of  panic  the  Government 
would  completely  stop  the  telephone  service,  causing 


94  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

immense  inconvenience  and  exasperating  the  popula- 
tion whom  they  were  trying  to  placate.  But  it  was 
not  in  Bolshevist  interests  to  suppress  it  entirely,  the 
telephone  being  an  effectual  means  of  detecting  "counter- 
volutionary"  machinations.  The  lines  were  closely 
watched,  a  suspicious  voice  or  phrase  would  lead  to  a 
line  being  "tapped,"  the  recorded  conversations  would 
be  scrutinized  for  hints  of  persons  or  addresses,  and 
then  the  Assyrian  came  down  like  a  wolf  on  the  fold  to 
seize  books,  papers,  and  documents,  and  augment  the 
number  of  occupants  of  Gorohorayan  cells.  So  one 
either  spoke  in  fluent  metaphor  or  by  prearranged 
verbal  signals  camouflaged  behind  talk  of  the  weather 
or  food.  The  "news  of  Leo,"  for  instance,  I  understood 
at  once  to  mean  news  of  Trotzky,  or  information  re- 
garding the  Red  army. 

Zorinsky  was  enthusiastic  when  I  called  next  day  and 
stayed  to  dinner.  "We'll  have  Melnikoff  out  in  no 
time,"  he  exclaimed.  "They  are  holding  his  case  over 
for  further  evidence.  He  will  be  taken  either  to  the 
Shpalernaya  or  Deriabinskaya  prison,  where  we  shall 
be  allowed  to  send  him  food.  Then  we'll  communicate 
by  hiding  notes  in  the  food  and  let  him  know  our  plan 
of  escape.  Meanwhile,  all's  well  with  ourselves,  so 
come  and  have  a  glass  of  vodka." 

I  was  overjoyed  at  tin's  good  news.  The  conditions 
at  either  of  the  two  prisons  he  mentioned  were  much 
better  than  at  No.  2  Gor6hovaya,  and  though  trans- 
ference to  them  meant  delay  in  decision  and  conse- 
quent prolongation  of  imprisonment,  the  prison  regime 
was  generally  regarded  as  more  lenient. 

"By  the  way."  said  Zorinsky,  "it  is  lucky  you  have 
come  to-day.     A  certain  Colonel  H.  is  coming  in  this 


THE  GREEN  SHAWL  95 

evening.  He  works  in  the  General  Staff  and  has 
interesting  news.  Trotzky  is  planning  to  come  up  to 
Petrograd." 

Elena  Ivanovna  was  in  a  bad  mood  because  a  lot  of 
sugar  that  had  been  promised  to  her  and  her  colleagues 
had  failed  to  arrive  and  she  had  been  unable  to  make 
cakes  for  two  days. 

"You  must  excuse  the  bad  dinner  to-night,  Pavel 
Ivanitch,"  she  said.  "I  had  intended  to  have  choco- 
late pudding  for  you,  but  as  it  is  there  will  be  no 
third  course.  Really,  the  way  we  are  treated  is  out- 
rageous." 

"Your  health,  Pavel  Ivanitch,"  said  Zorinsky,  un- 
dismayed by  the  prospect  of  no  third  course.  "Here 
we  have  something  better  even  than  chocolate  pudding, 
haven't  we?" 

He  talked  on  volubly  in  his  usual  strain,  harping 
back  again  to  pre-war  days  and  the  pleasures  of  regi- 
mental life.  I  asked  him  if  he  thought  most  of  the 
officers  were  still  monarchists. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "I  expect  you'll  find  they 
are  pretty  evenly  divided.  Very  few  are  socialists, 
but  a  lot  think  themselves  republicans.  Some,  of 
course,  are  monarchists,  and  many  are  nothing  at  all. 
As  for  me,"  he  continued,  "when  I  joined  my  regiment 
I  took  the  oath  of  allegiance  to  the  Tsar."  (At  the 
mention  of  the  Tsar  he  stood  upright  and  then  sat  down 
again,  a  gesture  which  astonished  me,  for  it  really 
seemed  to  be  spontaneous  and  unfeigned.)  "But  I 
consider  myself  absolved  and  free  to  serve  whom  I 
will  from  the  moment  the  Tsar  signed  the  deed  of 
abdication.  At  present  I  serve  nobody.  I  will  not 
serve  Trotzky,  but  I  will  work  with  him  if  he  offers  a 


9C  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

career.  That  is,  if  the  Allies  do  not  come  into  Petro- 
grad.  By  the  way,"  he  added,  checking  himself 
abruptly  and  obviously  desirous  of  knowing,  "do  you 
think  the  Allies  really  will  come — the  English,  for  in- 
stance?" 

"I  have  no  idea." 

"Strange.  Everyone  here  is  sure  of  it.  But  that 
means  nothing,  of  course.  Listen  in  the  queues  or 
market  places.  Now  Cronstadt  has  been  taken,  now 
the  Allies  are  in  Finland,  and  so  on.  Personally,  I 
believe  they  will  bungle  everything.  Nobody  really 
understands  Russia,  not  even  we  ourselves.  Except, 
perhaps,  Trotzky,"  he  added  as  an  afterthought, 
"or  the  Germans." 

"The  Germans,  you  think?" 

"Surely.  Prussianism  is  what  we  want.  You  see 
these  fat-faced  commissars  in  leathern  jackets  with 
three  or  four  revolvers  in  their  belts?  Or  the  sailors 
with  gold  watch  chains  and  rings,  with  their  pros- 
titutes promenading  the  Nevsky?  Those  rascals,  I 
tell  you,  will  be  working  inside  of  a  year,  working  like 
hell,  because  if  the  Whites  get  here  every  commissar 
will  be  hanged,  drawn  and  quartered.  Somebody  must 
work  to  keep  things  going.  Mark  my  words,  first  the 
Bolsheviks  will  make  their  Communists  work,  they'll 
give  them  all  sorts  of  privileges  and  power,  and  then 
they'll  make  the  Communists  make  the  others  work. 
Forward  the  whip  and  knout!  The  good  old  times 
again!  And  if  you  don't  like  it,  kindly  step  this 
way  to  No.  2  Gorohovaya!  Ugh!"  he  shuddered.  "No. 
2  Gorohovaya!     Here's  to  you,  Pavel  Ivanitch!" 

Zorinsky  drank  heavily,  but  the  liquor  produced  no 
visible  effect  on  him. 


THE  GREEN  SHAWL  97 

"By  the  way,"  he  asked,  abruptly,  "you  haven't 
heard  anything  of  Marsh,  have  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  said,  "he  is  in  Finland." 

"What!"  he  cried,  half-rising  from  the  table.  He 
was  livid. 

"In  Finland,"  I  repeated,  regarding  him  with  aston- 
ishment.    "He  got  away  the  day  before  yesterday." 

"He  got  away — ha!  ha!  ha!"  Zorinsky  dropped 
back  into  his  seat.  His  momentary  expression  changed 
as  suddenly  as  it  had  appeared,  and  he  burst  into  up- 
roarious laughter.  "Do  you  really  mean  to  say  so? 
Ha!  ha!  My  God,  won't  they  be  wild !  Damned  clever ! 
Don't  you  know  they've  been  turning  the  place  upside 
down  to  find  him?  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Now  that  really  is 
good  news,  upon  my  soul!" 

"Why  should  you  be  so  glad  about  it?"  I  inquired. 
"You  seemed  at  first  to " 

"I  was  astounded."  He  spoke  rapidly  and  a  little 
excitedly.  "Don't  you  know  Marsh  was  regarded  as 
chief  of  allied  organizations  and  a  most  dangerous  man? 
But  for  some  reason  they  were  dead  certain  of  catching 
him — dead  certain.  Haven't  they  got  his  wife,  or  his 
mother,  or  somebody,  as  hostage?" 

"His  wife." 

"It'll  go  badly  with  her,"  he  laughed  cruelly. 

It  was  my  turn  to  be  startled.  "What  do  you 
mean?"  I  said,  striving  to  appear  indifferent. 

"They  will  shoot  her." 

It  was  with  difficulty  that  I  maintained  a  tone  of 
mere  casual  interest.  "Do  you  really  think  they  will 
shoot  her?"  I  said,  incredulously. 

"Sure  to,"  he  replied,  emphatically.  "What  else  do 
they  take  hostages  for?" 


98  RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

For  the  rest  of  the  evening  I  thought  of  nothing  else 
but  the  possibility  of  Mrs.  Marsh  being  shot.  The 
Policeman  had  said  the  direct  opposite,  basing  his 
statement  on  what  he  said  was  inside  information.  On 
the  other  hand,  why  on  earth  should  hostages  be  taken 
if  they  were  to  be  liberated  when  the  culprits  had  fled? 
I  could  elicit  nothing  more  from  Zorinsky  except  that 
in  his  opinion  Mrs.  Marsh  might  be  kept  in  prison  a 
month  or  two,  but  in  the  long  run  would  most  un- 
doubtedly be  shot. 

I  listened  but  idly  to  the  colonel,  a  pompous  gentle- 
man with  a  bushy  white  beard,  who  came  in  after  dinner. 
Zorinsky  told  him  he  might  speak  freely  in  my  presence 
and,  sitting  bolt  upright,  he  conversed  in  a  rather 
ponderous  manner  on  the  latest  developments.  He 
appeared  to  have  a  high  opinion  of  Zorinsky.  He 
confirmed  the  latter's  statements  regarding  radical 
changes  in  the  organization  of  the  army,  and  said 
Trotzky  was  planning  to  establish  a  similar  new  regime 
in  the  Baltic  Fleet.  I  was  not  nearly  so  attentive  as 
I  ought  to  have  been,  and  had  to  ask  the  colonel  to 
repeat  it  all  to  me  at  our  next  meeting. 


Maria  was  the  only  person  I  took  into  my  confidence 
as  to  all  my  movements.  Every  morning  I  banged 
at  the  chalk-marked  door.  Maria  let  me  in  and  I  told 
her  how  things  were  going  with  Mrs.  Marsh.  Of 
course,  I  always  gave  her  optimistic  reports.  Then  I 
would  say,  "To-night,  Maria,  I  am  staying  at  the 
journalist's — you  know  his  address — to-morrow  at 
Stepanovna's,  Friday  night  at  Zorinsky's,  and  Satur- 
day, here.     So  if  anything  happens  you  will  know  where 


THE  GREEN  SHAWL  99 

it  probably  occurred.  If  I  disappear,  wait  a  couple 
of  days,  and  then  get  someone  over  the  frontier — per- 
haps the  coachman  will  go — and  tell  the  British  Con- 
sul." Then  I  would  give  her  my  notes,  written  in 
minute  handwriting  on  tracing  paper,  and  she  would 
hide  them  for  me.  Two  more  Englishmen  left  by 
Marsh's  route  a  few  days  after  his  departure  and  Maria 
gave  them  another  small  packet  to  carry,  saying  it 
was  a  letter  from  herself  to  Marsh.  So  it  was,  only 
on  the  same  sheet  as  she  had  scrawled  a  pencil  note  to 
Marsh  I  wrote  a  long  message  in  invisible  ink.  I 
made  the  ink  by — oh,  it  doesn't  matter  how. 

Zorinsky's  reports  as  to  Melnikoff  continued  to  be 
favourable.  He  hinted  at  a  certain  investigator  who 
might  have  to  be  bought  off,  to  which  I  gave  eager 
assent.  He  gave  me  further  information  on  political 
matters  which  proved  to  be  quite  accurate,  and  repel- 
lent though  his  bearing  and  appearance  were,  I  began 
to  feel  less  distrustful  of  him.  It  was  about  a  week 
later,  when  I  called  him  up,  that  he  told  me  "the 
doctors  had  decided  his  brother  was  sufficiently  well  to 
leave  hospital."  Tingling  with  excitement  and  expecta- 
tion I  hurried  round. 

"The  investigator  is  our  man,"  explained  Zorinsky, 
"and  guarantees  to  let  Melnikoff  out  within  a  month." 

"How  will  he  do  it  ?"  I  inquired. 

"That  rather  depends.  He  may  twist  the  evidence, 
but  Melnikoff's  is  a  bad  case  and  there's  not  much 
evidence  that  isn't  damaging.  If  that's  too  hard, 
he  may  swap  Melnikoff's  dossier  for  somebody  else's 
and  let  the  error  be  found  out  when  it's  too  late.  But 
he'll  manage  it  all  right." 

"And  it  must  take  a  whole  month?" 


100        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

"Melnikoff  will  be  freed  about  the  middle  of  Janu- 
ary. There's  no  doubt  about  it.  And  the  investiga- 
tor wants  60,000  roubles." 

"Sixty  thousand  roubles!  "  I  gasped.  I  was  appalled 
at  this  unexpected  figure.  Where  should  I  get  the 
money  from?  The  rouble  was  still  worth  about  40 
to  the  pound,  so  that  this  was  some  £1,500  or  $6,000. 

"Melnikoff's  case  is  a  hopeless  one,"  said  Zorinsky, 
drily.  "No  one  can  let  him  off  and  go  scot  free.  The 
investigator  wants  to  be  guaranteed,  for  he  will  have 
to  get  over  the  frontier  the  same  night,  too.  But  I 
advise  you  to  pay  only  half  now,  and  the  rest  the  day 
Melnikoff  gets  out.  There  will  also  be  a  few  odd  bribes 
to  accomplices.  Better  allow  75,000  or  80,000  roubles 
all  told." 

"I  have  very  little  money  with  me  just  now,"  I  said, 
"but  I  will  try  to  get  you  the  first  30,000  in  two  or  three 
days." 

"And  by  the  way,"  he  added,  "I  forgot  to  tell  you 
last  time  you  were  here  that  I  have  seen  Melnikoff's 
sister,  who  is  in  the  direst  straits.  Elena  Ivanovna 
and  I  have  sent  her  a  little  food,  but  she  also  needs 
money.  We  have  no  money,  for  we  scarcely  use  it 
nowadays,  but  perhaps  you  could  spare  a  thousand  or 
so  now  and  again." 

"I  will  give  you  some  for  her  when  I  bring  the 
other." 

"Thank  you.  She  will  be  grateful.  And  now,  un- 
pleasant business  over,  let's  go  and  have  a  glass  of 
vodka.     Your  health,  Pavel  Ivanitch." 

Rejoicing  at  the  prospect  of  securing  Melnikoff's 
release,  and  burdened  at  the  same  time  with  the  prob- 
lem of  procuring  this  large  sum  of  money,  I  rang  up  next 


THE  GREEN  SHAWL  101 

day  the  business  friend  of  whom  Marsh  had  spoken, 
using  a  pre-arranged  password.  Marsh  called  this 
gentleman  the  "Banker,"  though  that  was  not  his 
profession,  because  he  had  left  his  finances  in  his 
charge.  When  I  visited  him  I  found  him  to  be  a  man 
of  agreeable  though  nervous  deportment,  very  devoted 
to  Marsh.  He  was  unable  to  supply  me  with  all  the 
money  I  required,  and  I  decided  I  must  somehow  get 
the  rest  from  Finland,  perhaps  when  I  took  Mrs. 
Marsh  away. 

The  Banker  had  just  returned  from  Moscow,  whither 
he  had  been  called  with  an  invitation  to  accept  a  post 
in  a  new  department  created  to  check  the  ruin  of  in- 
dustry. He  was  very  sarcastic  over  the  manner  in 
which,  he  said,  the  "government  of  horny  hands" 
(as  the  Bolsheviks  frequently  designate  themselves) 
was  beginning  "to  grovel  before  people  who  can  read 
and  write."  "In  public  speeches,"  said  the  Banker, 
"they  still  have  to  call  us  'bourzhu  (bourgeois)  swine' 
for  the  sake  of  appearances,  but  in  private,  when  the 
doors  are  closed,  it  is  very  different.  They  have  even 
ceased  'comrading' :  it  is  no  longer  'Comrade  A.'  or 
'Comrade  B.'  when  they  address  us — that  honour  they 
reserve  for  themselves — but  'Excuse  me,  Alexander 
Vladimirovitch,'  or  'may  I  trouble  you,  Boris  Kon- 
stantinovitch.'"  He  laughed  ironically.  "Quite  'po- 
gentlemensky,'"  he  added,  using  a  Russianized  expres- 
sion whose  meaning  is  obvious. 

"Did  you  accept  the  post?"  I  asked. 

"I?  No,  sir!"  he  replied  with  emphasis.  "Do  I 
want  a  dirty  workman  holding  a  revolver  over  me  all 
day?  That  is  the  sort  of  'control'  they  intend  to 
exercise."     (He  did  accept  it,  however,  just  a  month 


102        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

later,  when  the  offer  was  renewed  with  the  promise  of 
a  tidy  salary  if  he  took  it,  and  prison  if  he  didn't.) 

On  the  following  day  I  brought  the  money  to  Zo- 
rinsky,  and  he  said  he  would  have  it  transferred  to 
the  investigator  at  once. 

"By  the  way,"  I  said,  "I  may  be  going  to  Finland 
for  a  few  days.  Do  not  be  surprised  if  you  do  not 
hear  from  me  for  a  week  or  so." 

"To  Finland?"  Zorinsky  was  very  interested. 
"Then  perhaps  you  will  not  return?" 

"I  am  certain  to  return,"  I  said,  "even  if  only  on 
account  of  Melnikoff." 

"And  of  course  you  have  other  business  here,"  he 
said.     "By  the  way,  how  are  you  going?" 

"I  don't  know  yet;  they  say  it  is  easy  enough  to 
walk  over  the  frontier." 

"Not  quite  so  easy,"  he  replied.  "Why  not  just 
walk  across  the  bridge?" 

"What  bridge?" 

"The  frontier  bridge  at  Bielo'ostrof." 

I  thought  he  was  mad.  "What  on  earth  do  you 
mean?"  I  asked. 

"It  can  be  fixed  up  all  right — with  a  little  care," 
he  went  on.  "Five  or  six  thousand  roubles  to  the 
station  commissar  and  he'll  shut  his  eyes,  another 
thousand  or  so  to  the  bridge  sentry  and  he'll  look  the 
other  way,  and  over  you  go.  Evening  is  the  best 
time,   when  it's  dark." 

I  remembered  I  had  heard  speak  of  this  method  in 
Finland.  Sometimes  it  worked,  sometimes  it  didn't. 
It  was  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world,  but  it  wasn't 
sure.  Commissars  were  erratic  and  not  unf earful  of 
burning  their  fingers.     Furthermore,  the  Finns  some- 


THE  GREEN  SHAWL  103 

times  turned  people  back.  Besides,  Mrs.  Marsh 
would  be  with  me — I  hoped — and  of  that  Zorinsky 
must  know  nothing. 

"That  is  a  splendid  notion,"  I  exclaimed.  "I  had 
never  thought  of  that.  I'll  let  you  know  before  I 
start." 

Next  day  I  told  him  I  had  decided  not  to  go  to 
Finland  because  I  was  thinking  of  going  to  Moscow. 


"Madame  Marsh  has  not  been  moved  from  No.  2 
Gorohovaya,"  declared  the  little  Policeman  as  I  sat 
opposite  him  in  his  fetid  den.  "Her  case  is  in  abey- 
ance, and  will  doubtless  remain  so  for  some  time. 
Since  they  learned  of  Marsh's  flight  they  have  left  her 
alone.  They  may  perhaps  forget  all  about  her.  Now, 
I  think,  is  the  time  to  act." 

"What  will  they  do  to  her  if  her  case  comes  on 
again  r 

"It  is  too  early  yet  to  conjecture." 

It  was  shortly  before  Christmas  that  the  Policeman 
began  to  grow  nervous  and  excited,  and  I  could  see 
that  his  emotion  was  real.  His  plan  for  Mrs.  Marsh's 
escape  was  developing,  occupying  his  whole  mind  and 
causing  him  no  small  concern.  Every  day  I  brought 
him  some  little  present,  such  as  cigarettes,  sugar,  or 
butter,  procured  from  Maria,  so  that  he  should  have 
fewer  household  cares  to  worry  over.  At  last  I  became 
almost  as  wrought  up  as  he  was  himself,  while  Maria, 
whom  I  kept  informed,  was  in  a  constant  state  of 
tremor  resulting  from  her  fever  of  anxiety. 

December  18th  dawned  bleak  and  raw.  The  wind 
tore  in  angry  gushes  round  the  corners  of  the  houses, 


104        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

snatching  up  the  sandy  snow,  and  flinging  it  viciously 
in  the  half-hidden  faces  of  hurrying,  harassed  pedes- 
trians. Toward  noon  the  storm  abated,  and  Maria 
and  I  set  out  together  for  a  neighbouring  market  place. 
We  were  going  to  buy  a  woman's  cloak,  for  that  night 
I  was  to  take  Mrs.  Marsh  across  the  frontier. 

The  corner  of  the  Kuznetchny  Pereulok  and  the 
Yladimirovsky  Prospect  has  been  a  busy  place  for 
"speculators"  ever  since  private  trading  was  prohib- 
ited. Even  on  this  bitter  winter  day  there  were  the 
usual  lines  of  wretched  people  standing  patiently,  dis- 
posing of  personal  belongings  or  of  food  got  by  for- 
aging in  the  country.  Many  of  them  were  women 
of  the  educated  class,  selling  off  their  last  possessions 
in  the  effort  to  scrape  together  sufficient  to  buy  meagre 
provisions  for  themselves  or  their  families.  Either 
they  were  unable  to  find  occupation  or  were  here  in 
the  intervals  of  work.  Old  clothing,  odds  and  ends 
of  every  description,  crockery,  toys,  nick-nacks,  clocks, 
books,  pictures,  paper,  pots,  pans,  pails,  pipes,  post- 
cards— the  entire  paraphernalia  of  antiquarian  and 
second-hand  dealers'  shops,  could  here  be  found  turned 
out  on  to  the  pavements. 

Maria  and  I  passed  the  people  selling  sugar  by  the 
lump,  their  little  stock  of  four  or  five  lumps  exposed 
on  outstretched  palms.  We  also  passed  the  herrings, 
and  the  "bread  patties"  of  greenish  colour.  Passers-by 
would  pick  up  a  patty,  smell  it,  and  if  they  did  not 
like  it,  would  put  it  back  and  try  the  next.  Maria 
was  making  for  the  old  clothing,  and  as  we  pushed 
through  the  crowd  we  kept  eyes  and  ears  open  for 
warning  of  a  possible  raid,  for  from  time  to  time  bands 
of  guards  would  make  a  sudden  dash  at  the  "specu- 


THE  GREEN  SHAWL  105 

lators,"  arrest  a  few  unlucky  ones,  and  disperse  the 
rest. 

Maria  soon  found  what  she  wanted — a  warm  cloak 
which  had  evidently  seen  better  days.  The  tired  eyes 
of  the  tall,  refined  lady  from  whom  we  bought  it 
opened  wide  as  I  immediately  paid  the  first  price 
she  asked. 

"Je  vous,  remercie  Madame,""  I  said,  and  as  Maria 
donned  the  cloak  and  we  moved  away  the  look  of  scorn 
on  the  lady's  face  passed  into  one  of  astonishment. 

"Don't  fail  to  have  tea  ready  at  five,  Maria,"  I 
said  as  we  returned. 

"Am  I  likely  to  fail,  Ivan  Ilitch?" 

We  sat  and  waited.  The  minutes  were  hours,  the 
hours  days.  At  three  I  said:  "I  am  going  now, 
Maria."  Biting  her  fingers,  Maria  stood  trembling 
as  I  left  her  and  set  out  to  walk  across  the  town. 


The  dingy  interior  of  the  headquarters  of  the  Extraor- 
dinary Commission,  with  its  bare  stairs  and  passages, 
is  an  eerie  place  at  all  times  of  the  year,  but  never  is 
its  sombre,  sorrow-laden  gloom  so  intense  as  on  a 
December  afternoon  when  dusk  is  sinking  into  dark- 
ness. WTiile  Maria  and  I,  unable  to  conceal  our 
agitation,  made  our  preparations,  there  sat  in  one  of 
the  inner  chambers  at  No.  2  Gorohovaya  a  group  of 
women,  from  thirty  to  forty  in  number.  Their  faces 
were  undistinguishable  in  the  growing  darkness,  sit- 
ting in  groups  on  the  wooden  planks  which  took  the 
place  of  bedsteads.  The  room  was  over-heated  and 
nauseatingly  stuffy,  but  the  patient  figures  paid  no 
heed,  nor  appeared  to  care  whether  it  be  hot  or  cold, 


106        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

dark  or  light.  A  few  chatted  in  undertones,  but  most 
of  them  sat  motionless  and  silent,  waiting,  waiting, 
endlessly  waiting. 

The  terror-hour  had  not  yet  come — it  came  only 
at  seven  each  evening.  The  terror-hour  was  more 
terrible  in  the  men's  chambers,  where  the  toll  was 
greater,  but  it  visited  the  women,  too.  Then,  every 
victim  knew  that  if  the  heavy  door  was  opened  and 
his  name  called,  he  passed  out  into  eternity.  For 
executions  were  carried  out  in  the  evening  and  the 
bodies  removed  at  night. 

At  seven  o'clock,  all  talk,  all  action  ceased.  Faces 
sat  white  and  still,  fixed  on  the  heavy  folding  door. 
When  it  creaked  every  figure  became  a  statue,  a 
death-statue,  stone-livid,  breathless,  dead  in  life.  A 
moment  of  ghastly,  intolerable  suspense,  a  silence 
that  could  be  felt,  and  in  the  silence — a  name.  And 
when  the  name  was  spoken,  every  figure — but  one — 
would  imperceptibly  relapse.  Here  and  there  a  lip 
would  twitch,  here  and  there  a  smile  would  flicker. 
But  no  one  would  break  the  dead  silence.  One  of 
their  number  was  doomed. 

The  figure  that  bore  the  spoken  name  would  rise, 
and  move,  move  slowly  with  a  wooden,  unnatural  gait, 
tottering  along  the  narrow  aisle  between  the  plank 
couches.  Some  would  look  up  and  some  would  look 
down;  some,  fascinated,  would  watch  the  dead  figure 
pass;  and  some  would  pray,  or  mutter,  "To-morrow, 
maybe,  I."  Or  there  would  be  a  frantic  shriek,  a 
brutal  struggle,  and  worse  than  Death  would  fill  the 
chamber,  till  where  two  were,  one  only  would  be 
left,  heaving  convulsively,  insane,  clutching  the  rough 
woodwork  with  bleeding  nails. 


THE  GREEN  SHAWL  107 

But  the  silence  was  the  silence  of  supreme  compas- 
sion, the  eyes  that  followed  or  the  eyes  that  fell  were 
alike  those  of  brothers  or  sisters,  for  in  death's  hour 
vanish  all  differences  and  reigns  the  only  true  Com- 
munism— the  Communism  of  Sympathy.  Not  there, 
in  the  Kremlin,  nor  there  in  the  lying  Soviets — but 
here  in  the  terrible  house  of  inquisition,  in  the  Com- 
munist dungeons,  is  true  Communism  at  last  estab- 
lished ! 

But  on  this  December  afternoon  the  terror-hour 
was  not  yet.  There  were  still  three  hours'  respite, 
and  the  figures  spoke  low  in  groups  or  sat  silently 
waiting,  waiting,  endlessly  waiting. 

Then  suddenly  a  name  was  called.     "Lydia  Marsh!" 

The  hinges  creaked,  the  guard  appeared  in  the 
doorway,  and  the  name  was  spoken  loud  and  clearly. 
"It  is  not  the  terror-hour  yet,"  thought  every  woman, 
glancing  at  the  twilight  through  the  high,  dirt-stained 
windows. 

A  figure  rose  from  a  distant  couch.  "What  can  it 
be?"  "Another  interpellation?"  "An  unusual  hour!" 
Low  voices  sounded  from  the  group.  "They've  left 
me  alone  three  days,"  said  the  rising  figure,  wearily. 
"I  suppose  now  it  begins  all  over  again.  Well,  d 
hientbt." 

The  figure  disappeared  in  the  doorway,  and  the 
women  went  on  waiting — waiting  for  seven    o'clock. 

"Follow  me,"  said  the  guard.  He  moved  along 
the  corridor  and  turned  down  a  side-passage.  They 
passed  others  in  the  corridor,  but  no  one  heeded. 
The  guard  stopped.  Looking  up,  the  woman  saw 
she  was  outside  the  women's  lavatory.  She  waited. 
The  guard  pointed  with  his  bayonet. 


108        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

"In  here?"  queried  the  figure  in  surprise.  The 
guard  was  silent.  The  woman  pushed  the  door  open 
and  entered. 

Lying  in  the  corner  were  a  dark  green  shawl  and  & 
shabby  hat,  with  two  slips  of  paper  attached.  One 
of  them  was  a  pass  in  an  unknown  name,  stating  that 
the  holder  had  entered  the  building  at  four  o'clock 
and  must  leave  before  seven.  The  other  had  scrawled 
on  it  the  words:  "Walk  straight  into  St.  Izaac's 
Cathedral." 

Mechanically  she  destroyed  the  second  slip,  ad- 
justed the  shabby  hat,  and  wrapping  the  shawl  well 
round  her  neck  and  face  passed  out  into  the  passage. 
She  elbowed  others  in  the  corridor,  but  no  one  heeded 
her.  At  the  foot  of  the  main  staircase  she  was  asked 
for  her  pass.  She  showed  it  and  was  motioned  on. 
At  the  main  entrance  she  was  again  asked  for  her  pass. 
She  showed  it  and  was  passed  out  into  the  street.  She 
looked  up  and  down.  The  street  was  empty,  and 
crossing  the  road  hurriedly  she  disappeared  round  the 
corner. 

Like  dancing  constellations  the  candles  flickered 
and  flared  in  front  of  the  ikons  at  the  foot  of  the  huge 
pillars  of  the  vast  cathedral.  Halfway  up  the  columns 
vanished  in  gloom.  I  had  already  burned  two  can- 
dles, and  though  I  was  concealed  in  the  niche  of  a 
pillar,  I  knelt  and  stood  alternately,  partly  from  im- 
patience, partly  that  my  piety  should  be  patent  to 
any  chance  observer.  But  my  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  little  wooden  side-entrance.  How  interminable 
the  minutes  seemed.     Quarter  to  five! 

Then  the  green  shawl  appeared.  It  looked  almost 
black  in   the  dim  darkness.     It  slipped   through  the 


THE  GREEN  SHAWL  109 

doorway  quickly,  stood  still  a  moment,  and  moved  irres- 
olutely forward.     I  walked  up  to  the  shrouded  figure. 

"Mrs.  Marsh?"  I  said  quietly  in  English. 

"Yes." 

"I  am  the  person  you  are  to  meet.  I  hope  you  will 
soon  see  your  husband." 

"Where  is  he?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"In  Finland.     You  go  there  with  me  to-night." 

We  left  the  cathedral  and  crossing  the  square  took 
a  cab  and  drove  to  the  place  called  Five  Corners. 
Here  we  walked  a  little  and  finding  another  cab  drove 
near  to  "No.  5,"  again  walking  the  last  hundred 
yards.     I  banged  at  the  door  three  times. 

How  shall  I  describe  the  meeting  with  Maria!  I 
left  them  weeping  together  and  went  into  another 
room.  Neither  will  I  attempt  to  describe  the  parting, 
when  an  hour  later  Mrs.  Marsh  stood  ready  for  her 
journey,  clad  in  the  cloak  we  had  purchased  in  the 
morning,  and  with  a  black  shawl  in  place  of  the  green 
one. 

"There  is  no  time  to  lose,"  I  said.  "We  must 
be  at  the  station  at  seven,  and  it  is  a  long  drive." 

The  adieus  were  over  at  last,  and  Maria  stood 
weeping  at  the  door  as  we  made  our  way  down  the 
dark  stone  stairs. 

"I  will  call  you  Varvara,"  I  cautioned  my  com- 
panion. "You  call  me  Vania,  and  if  by  chance  we 
are  stopped,  I  am  taking  you  to  hospital." 

We  drove  slowly  to  the  distant  straggling  Okhta 
station,  where  lately  I  had  watched  the  huge  figure  of 
Marsh  clamber  on  to  the  roof  and  disappear  through 
the  window.  The  little  Policeman  was  on  the  plat- 
form,   sincerely   overjoyed    at    this   happy   ending   to 


110        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

his  design.  I  forgot  his  ways,  his  dirtiness,  his  messy 
quarters,  and  thanked  him  heartily,  and  as  I  thrust 
the  packet  of  money  Marsh  had  left  for  him  into 
his  hand,  I  felt  that  at  this  moment,  at  least,  that 
was  not  what  was  uppermost  in  his  thoughts. 

"Come  on,  Varvara!"  I  shouted  in  Russian,  rudely 
tugging  Mrs.  Marsh  by  the  sleeve  and  dragging  her 
along  the  platform.  "We  shan't  get  places  if  you 
stand  gaping  like  that!  Come  on,  stupid!"  I  hauled 
her  toward  the  train,  and  seeing  an  extra  box-car 
being  hitched  on  in  front,  rushed  in  its  direction. 

"Gently,  gently,  Vania!"  cried  my  companion  in 
genuine  distress  as  I  lifted  her  bodily  and  landed  her 
on  the  dirty  floor. 

"Ne  zievai! "  I  cried.  " Sadyis!  Na,  beri  mieshotchek ! 
Don't  yawn!  Get  in!  Here,  take  the  bag!"  and 
while  I  clambered  up,  I  handed  her  the  packet  of  sand- 
wiches made  by  Maria  for  the  journey.  "If  any- 
thing happens,"  I  whispered  in  English  when  we  were 
safely  ensconced,  "we  are  'speculators' — looking  for 
milk;  that's  what  nearly  everybody  here  is  doing." 

The  compact  seething  mass  of  beings  struggling 
to  squirm  into  the  car  resembled  a  swarm  of  hiving 
bees,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  place  was  packed 
like  a  sardine-box.  In  vain  late  arrivals  endeavoured, 
headforemost,  to  burrow  a  path  inward.  In  vain 
some  dozens  of  individuals  pleaded  to  the  inmates  to 
squeeze  "just  a  little  tighter"  and  make  room  "for 
just  one  more."  Somehow  the  doors  were  slid  to, 
and  we  sat  in  the  pitch  darkness  and  waited. 

Though  the  car  must  have  held  nearly  a  hundred 
people,  once  we  were  encased  conversation  ceased 
completely;  scarcely  any  one  spoke,  and  if  they  did  it 


THE  GREEN  SHAWL  111 

was  in  undertones.  Until  the  train  started,  the  silence, 
but  for  audible  breathing,  was  uncanny.  Only  a 
boy,  sitting  next  to  my  companion,  coughed  during 
the  whole  journey — coughed  rackingly  and  incessantly, 
nearly  driving  me  mad.  After  a  while  a  candle  was 
produced,  and  round  the  flickering  light  at  one  end 
of  the  car  some  Finns  began  singing  folk-songs.  A 
few  people  tumbled  out  at  wayside  stations,  and  four 
hours  later  when  we  arrived  at  Grusino,  the  car  was 
only  three  quarters  full. 

It  was  nearly  midnight.  Animality  surged  from 
the  train  and  dispersed  rapidly  into  the  woods  in  all 
directions.  I  took  my  companion,  as  Marsh  had  di- 
rected, along  a  secluded  path  in  the  wrong  direction. 
A  few  minutes  later  we  turned,  and  crossing  the  rails 
a  little  above  the  platform,  took  the  forest  track 
that  led  to  Fita's  house. 

Fita  was  a  Finn,  the  son  of  a  peasant  who  had  been 
shot  by  the  Bolsheviks  for  "speculation."  While  Fita 
was  always  rewarded  for  his  services  as  guide,  his 
father's  death  was  a  potent  incentive  to  him  to  do 
whatever  lay  in  his  power  to  help  those  who  were 
fleeing  from  his  parent's  murderers.  Eventually  he 
was  discovered  in  this  occupation,  and  suffered  the 
same  fate  as  his  father,  being  shot  "for  conspiring 
against  the  proletarian  dictatorship."  He  was  only 
sixteen  years  of  age,  very  simple  and  shy,  but  cour- 
ageous and  enterprising. 

We  had  an  hour  to  wait  at  Fita's  cottage,  and  while 
Mrs.  Marsh  lay  down  to  rest  I  took  the  boy  aside  to 
speak  about  the  journey  and  question  him  as  to  four 
other  people,  obviously  fugitives  like  ourselves,  whom 
we  found  in  his  house. 


112        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

"Which  route  are  we  going  by,"  I  asked,  "north 
or  west?" 

"North,"  he  answered.  "It  is  much  longer,  but 
when  the  weather  is  good  it  is  not  difficult  walking 
and  is  the  safest." 

"You  have  the  best  sledge  for  me?" 

"Yes,  and  the  best  horse." 

"These  other  people,  who  are  they?" 

"I  don't  know.  The  man  is  an  officer.  He  came 
inquiring  in  these  parts  three  days  ago  and  the  peasants 
directed  him  to  me.     I  promised  to  help  him." 

Besides  the  Russian  officer,  clad  in  rough  working 
clothes,  there  was  a  lady  who  spoke  French,  and  two 
pretty  girls  of  about  15  and  17  years  of  age.  The 
girls  were  dressed  rather  a  la  tureque,  in  brown  woollen 
jerkins  and  trousers  of  the  same  material.  They 
showed  no  trace  of  nervousness,  and  both  looked  as 
though  they  were  thoroughly  enjoying  a  jolly  ad- 
venture. They  spoke  to  the  officer  in  Russian  and 
to  the  lady  in  French,  and  I  took  it  that  she  was  a 
governess  and  he  an  escort. 

We  drove  out  from  Fita's  cottage  at  one  o'clock. 
The  land  through  which  the  Russian  frontier  passes 
west  of  Lake  Ladoga  is  forest  and  morass,  with  few 
habitations.  In  winter  the  morass  freezes  and  is 
covered  with  deep  snow.  The  next  stage  of  our 
journey  ended  at  a  remote  hut  five  miles  from  the 
frontier  on  the  Russian  side,  the  occupant  of  which, 
likewise  a  Finnish  peasant,  was  to  conduct  us  on 
foot  through  the  woods  to  the  first  Finnish  village, 
ten  miles  beyond.  The  night  was  a  glorious  one. 
The  day's  storm  had  completely  abated.  Huge  white 
clouds    floated    slowly    across    the     full     moon,    and 


THE  GREEN  SHAWL  113 

the  air  was  still.  The  fifteen-mile  sleigh -drive  from 
Fita's  cottage  to  the  peasant's  hut,  over  hill  and 
dale,  by  sideways  and  occasionally  straight  across  the 
marshes  when  outposts  had  to  be  avoided,  was  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  I  have  ever  experienced — even 
in  Russia. 

In  a  large  open  clearance  of  the  forest  stood  three  or 
four  rude  huts,  with  tumbledown  outhouses,  black, 
silent,  and  fairy-picturesque,  throwing  blue  shadows 
on  the  dazzling  snow.  The  driver  knocked  at  one  of 
the  doors.  After  much  waiting  it  was  opened,  and  we 
were  admitted  by  an  old  peasant  and  his  wife,  obviously 
torn  from  their  slumbers. 

We  were  joined  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  by  the 
other  party,  exchanging,  however,  no  civilities  or 
signs  of  recognition.  When  the  peasant  had  dressed 
we  set  out. 

Deserting  the  track-roadway  almost  immediately, 
we  launched  into  the  deep  snow  across  the  open  ground, 
making  directly  for  the  forest.  Progress  was  re- 
tarded by  the  soft  snowdrifts  into  which  our  feet 
sank  as  high  as  the  knees,  and  for  the  sake  of  the 
ladies  we  had  to  make  frequent  halts.  Winding  in 
and  out  of  the  forest,  avoiding  tracks,  and  skirting 
open  spaces,  it  seemed  an  interminable  time  before  we 
arrived  anywhere  near  the  actual  frontier  line. 

Mrs.  Marsh  and  the  French  lady  patched  up  a 
chatting  acquaintance,  and  during  one  of  our  halts, 
while  the  girls  were  lying  outstretched  on  the  snow, 
I  asked  her  if  the  French  lady  had  told  her  who  our 
companions  were.  But  the  French  lady,  it  appeared, 
would  not  say,  until  we  had  actually  crossed  the  frontier. 

I  was  astonished  at  the  manner  in  which  Mrs.  Marsh 


114        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

stood  the  strain  of  our  night  adventure.  She  had 
been  in  prison  nearly  a  month,  living  on  the  scanty  and 
atrocious  prison  food,  subjected  to  long,  nerve-racking, 
and  searching  cross-examinations,  yet  she  bore  up 
better  than  any  of  the  other  females  in  our  party,  and 
after  rest-halts  was  always  the  first  to  be  ready  to 
restart.  There  were  ditches  to  cross  and  narrow, 
rickety  bridges  to  be  traversed.  Once  our  guide, 
laden  with  parcels,  suddenly  vanished,  sinking  com- 
pletely into  an  invisible  d:,  ke  which  had  filled  with 
snowdrift.  He  scrambled  up  the  other  side  all  wet 
from  the  water  into  which  he  had  plunged  through 
the  thin  ice.  The  snow  was  so  soft  that  we  could 
find  no  foothold  to  jump,  and  it  looked  as  if  there 
were  no  means  of  crossing  except  as  our  poor  guide 
had  done,  until  the  idea  occurred  to  me  that  by  sprawl- 
ing on  my  stomach  the  snowdrift  might  not  collapse. 
So,  planting  my  feet  as  deeply  as  I  could,  I  threw  my- 
self across,  digging  with  my  hands  into  the  other  side 
till  I  got  a  grip,  and  thus  forming  a  bridge.  Mrs. 
Marsh  walked  tentatively  across  my  back,  the  drift 
still  held,  the  others  followed.  I  wriggled  over  on  my 
stomach,  and  we  all  got  over  dry. 

At  last  we  arrived  at  a  dyke  about  eight  or  ten 
feet  broad,  filled  with  water  and  only  partially  frozen 
over.  A  square  white-and-black  post  on  its  bank 
showed  that  we  were  at  the  frontier.  "The  outposts 
are  a  mile  away  on  either  hand,"  whispered  our  peasant- 
guide.     "We  must  get  across  as  quickly  as  possible." 

The  dyke  lay  across  a  clearance  in  the  forest.  We 
walked  along  it,  looking  wistfully  at  the  other  bank 
ten  feet  away,  and  searching  for  the  bridge  our  guide 
said  should  be  somewhere  here.     All  at  once  a  black 


THE  GREEN  SHAWL  115 

figure  emerged  from  the  trees  a  hundred  yards  behind 
us.  We  stood  stock-still,  expecting  others  to  appear, 
and  ready,  if  attacked,  to  jump  into  the  dyke  and  reach 
the  other  bank  at  all  costs.  Our  guide  was  the  most 
terrified  of  the  party,  but  the  black  figure  turned  out 
only  to  be  a  peasant  acquaintance  of  his  from  another 
village,  who  told  us  there  was  a  bridge  at  the  other 
end  of  the  clearance. 

The  "bridge"  we  found  to  be  a  rickety  plank,  ice- 
covered  and  slippery,  that  threatened  to  give  way 
as  each  one  of  us  stepped  on  to  it.  One  by  one  we 
crossed  it,  expecting  it  every  moment  to  collapse, 
and  stood  in  a  little  group  on  the  farther  side. 

"This  is  Finland,"  observed  our  guide,  laconically, 
"that  is  the  last  you  will  see  of  Sovdepia."  He  used 
an  ironical  popular  term  for  Soviet  Russia  constructed 
from  the  first  syllables  of  the  words  Soviets  of  Deputies. 

The  moment  they  set  foot  on  Finnish  soil  the  two 
girls  crossed  themselves  devoutly  and  fell  on  their 
knees.  Then  we  moved  up  to  a  fallen  tree-trunk  some 
distance  away  and  sat  down  to  eat  sandwiches. 

"It's  all  right  for  you,"  the  peasant  went  on,  sud- 
denly beginning  to  talk.  "You're  out  of  it,  but 
I've  got  to  go  back."  He  had  scarcely  said  a  word 
the  whole  time,  but  once  out  of  Russia,  even  though 
"Sovdepia"  was  but  a  few  yards  distant,  he  felt  he 
could  say  what  he  liked.  And  he  did.  But  most  of 
the  party  paid  but  little  attention  to  his  complaints 
against  the  hated  "Kommuna."  That  was  now  all 
behind. 

It  was  easy  work  from  thence  onward.  There 
was  another  long  walk  through  deep  snow,  but  we  could 
lie  down  as  often  as  we  pleased  without  fear  of  dis- 


116        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

covery  by  Red  patrols.  We  should  only  have  to 
report  to  the  nearest  Finnish  authorities  and  ask 
for  an  escort  until  we  were  identified.  We  all  talked 
freely  now— no  longer  in  nervous  whispers — and 
everyone  had  some  joke  to  tell  that  made  everybody 
else  laugh.  At  one  of  our  halts  Mrs.  Marsh  whis- 
pered in  my  ear,  "They  are  the  daughters  of  the 
Grand  Duke  Paul  Alexandrovitch,  the  Tsar's  uncle, 
who  was  imprisoned  the  other  day." 

The  girls  were  his  daughters  by  morganatic  mar- 
riage. I  thought  little  of  them  at  the  time,  except 
that  they  were  both  very  pretty  and  very  tastefully 
dressed  in  their  sporting  costumes.  But  I  was  re- 
minded of  them  a  few  weeks  later  when  I  was  back  in 
Petrograd.  Without  trial,  their  father  was  shot  one 
night  in  the  fortress  of  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul,  and 
his  body,  together  with  other  near  relatives  of  the 
murdered  Tsar,  was  thrown  into  a  common  and  un- 
marked   grave. 

The  incident  did  not  impress  me  as  it  did  some,  for 
in  the  revolutionary  tornado  those  of  high  estate  pass 
like  chaff  before  the  wind.  I  could  not  but  feel  more 
for  the  hundreds  less  known  and  less  fortunate  who 
were  unable  to  flee  and  escape  the  cruel  scythe  of 
revolution.  Still,  I  was  glad  the  young  girls  I  had 
travelled  with  were  no  longer  in  the  place  called  Sov- 
depia.  How,  I  wondered,  would  they  learn  of  the 
grim  tragedy  of  the  gloomy  fortress?  Who  would 
tell  them?  To  whom  would  fall  the  bitter  lot  to  say: 
"Your  father  was  shot  for  bearing  the  name  he  bore — 
shot,  not  in  fair  fight,  but  like  a  dog,  by  a  gang  of 
Letts  and  Chinese  hirelings,  and  his  body  lies  none 
knows  where?"     And  I  was  glad  it  was  not  I. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MESHES 

"Why,  yes,  Maria!"  I  exclaimed,  "the  way  Mrs. 
Marsh  bore  up  was  just  wonderful  to  see!  Twelve 
miles  in  deep  snow,  heavy  marching  through  thickets 
and  scrub,  over  ditches  and  dykes,  stumps  and  pit- 
falls, with  never  a  word  of  complaint,  just  like  a  picnic! 
You'd  never  have  dreamt  she  was  just  out  of  prison." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  Maria,  proudly,  "that  would 
be  just  like  her.     And  where  is  she  now,  Ivan  Hitch?" 

"On  the  way  to  England,  I  guess." 

I  was  back  again  in  Red  Petrograd  after  a  brief 
stay  in  Finland.  That  little  country  was  supposed 
to  be  the  headquarters  of  the  Russian  counter-revo- 
lution, which  meant  that  everyone  who  had  a  plan 
to  overthrow  the  Bolsheviks  (and  there  were  almost 
as  many  plans  as  there  were  patriots)  conspired  with 
as  much  noise  as  possible  to  push  it  through  to  the 
detriment  of  everybody  else's.  So  tongues  wagged 
fast  and  viciously,  and  any  old  cock-and-bull  story 
about  anybody  else  was  readily  believed,  circulated, 
and  shouted  abroad.  You  got  it  published  if  you 
could,  and  if  you  couldn't  (the  papers,  after  all,  had 
to  set  some  limits),  then  you  printed  it  yourself  in  the 
form  of  a  libellous  pamphlet.  I  felt  a  good  deal 
safer  in  Petrograd,  where  I  was  thrown  entirely  on 
my  own  resources,  than  in  Helsingfors,  where  the 
appearance  of  a  stranger  in  a  cafe  or  restaurant  in 

117 


118        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

almost  anybody's  company  was  sufficient  to  set  the 
puppets  of  a  rival  faction  in  commotion,  like  an  ant 
nest  when  a  stone  is  dropped  on  it. 

So  I  hid,  stayed  at  a  room  in  a  private  house,  bought 
my  own  food  or  frequented  insignificant  restaurants, 
and  was  glad  when  I  was  given  some  money  for  ex- 
penses and  could  return  to  my  friends  Maria,  Stepa- 
novna,  the  Journalist,  and  others  in  Petrograd. 
"How  did  you  get  back  here,  Ivan  Hitch?" 
"Same  old  way,  Maria.  Black  night.  Frozen 
river.  Deep  snow.  Everything  around — bushes,  trees, 
meadows — still  and  gray-blue  in  the  starlight.  Fin- 
nish patrols  kept  guard  as  before — lent  me  a  white 
sheet,  too,  to  wrap  myself  up  in.  Sort  of  cloak  of 
invisibility,  like  in  the  fairy  tales.  So  while  the 
Finns  watched  through  the  bushes,  I  shuffled  across 
the  river,  looking  like  Csesar's  ghost." 

Maria  was  fascinated.  "And  did  nobody  see  you?" 
"Nobody,  Maria.  To  make  a  good  story  I  should 
have  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  Red  patrol  and  an- 
nounced myself  as  the  spirit  of  His  Late  Imperial 
Majesty,  returned  to  wreak  vengeance,  shouldn't  I? 
But  I  didn't.  Instead  of  that  I  threw  away  the 
sheet  and  took  a  ticket  to  Petrograd.  Very  prosaic, 
wasn't  it?     I'll  have  some  more  tea,  please." 

I  found  a  new  atmosphere  developing  in  the  city 
which  is  proudly  entitled  the  "Metropolis  of  the  World 
Revolution."  Simultaneously  with  the  increasing 
shortage  of  food  and  fuel  and  the  growing  embitter- 
ment  of  the  masses,  new  tendencies  were  observable 
on  the  part  of  the  ruling  Communist  Party.  Roughly, 
these  tendencies  might  be  classed  as  political  or  ad- 
ministrative, social,  and  militarist. 


MESHES  119 

Politically,  the  Communist  Party  was  being  driven 
in  view  of  popular  discontent  to  tighten  its  control 
by  every  means  on  all  branches  of  administrative 
function  in  the  country.  Thus  the  people's  cooper- 
ative societies  and  trade  unions  were  gradually  being 
deprived  of  their  liberties  and  independence  and  the 
"boss"  system  under  Communist  bosses  was  being 
introduced.  At  the  same  time  elections  had  to  be 
strictly  "controlled,"  that  is,  manipulated  in  such  a 
way  that  only  Communists  got  elected. 

As  an  off-set  to  this,  it  was  evident  the  Communists 
were  beginning  to  realize  that  political  "soundness" 
(that  is,  public  confession  of  the  Communist  creed) 
was  a  bad  substitute  for  administrative  ability.  The 
premium  on  ignorance  was  being  replaced  by  a  pre- 
mium on  intelligence  and  training,  and  bourgeois 
"specialists"  of  every  calling,  subject  to  rigid  Com- 
munist control,  were  being  encouraged  to  resume 
their  avocations  or  accept  posts  with  remunerative 
pay  under  the  Soviet  Government.  Only  two  con- 
ditions were  required,  namely,  that  the  individual 
renounce  all  claim  to  former  property  and  all  partici- 
pation in  politics.  These  overtures  were  made  par- 
ticularly to  members  of  the  liberal  professions,  doctors, 
nurses,  matrons,  teachers,  actors,  and  artists,  but 
also  to  industrial  and  commercial  experts,  and  even 
landlords  who  were  trained  agriculturalists.  Thus 
was  established  a  compromise  with  the  bourgeoisie. 

No  people  in  the  world  are  so  capable  of  heroic  and 
self-sacrificing  labour  for  purely  altruistic  motives 
as  a  certain  type  of  Russian.  I  remember  in  the 
summer  of  1918,  when  the  persecution  of  the  intel- 
ligentsia was  at  its  height,  drawing  attention  in  an 


120        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

official  report  to  the  remarkable  fact  of  the  large 
number  of  educated  Russians  who  had  heroically 
stuck  to  their  posts  and  were  struggling  in  the  face 
of  adversity  to  save  at  least  something  from  the  gen- 
eral wreck.  Such  individuals  might  be  found  at 
times  even  within  the  ranks  of  "the  party,"  but  they 
cared  little  for  the  silly  politics  of  Bolshevism  and 
nothing  whatever  for  the  world  revolution.  Credit 
is  due  to  the  Communists  at  least  to  this  extent,  that 
they  realized  ultimately  the  value  of  such  humane 
service,  and,  when  they  discovered  it,  encouraged  it, 
especially  if  the  credit  for  it  accrued  to  themselves. 
The  work  done  by  heroic  individuals  of  this  type 
served  largely  to  counterbalance  the  psychological 
effect  of  ever-increasing  political  and  industrial  slavery, 
and  it  has  therefore  been  denounced  as  "treacherous" 
by  some  counter-revolutionary  emigres,  and  especially 
by  those  in  whose  eyes  the  alleviation  of  the  bitter 
lot  of  the  Russian  people  was  a  minor  detail  compared 
with  the  task  of  restoring  themselves  to  the  seat  of 
power. 

The  third  growing  tendency,  the  militarist,  was  the 
most  interesting,  and,  incidentally,  to  me  the  most 
embarrassing.  The  stimulus  to  build  a  mighty  Red 
army  for  world-revolutionary  purposes  was  accentu- 
ated by  the  pressing  need  of  mobilizing  forces  to  beat 
off  the  counter-revolutionary,  or  "White,"  armies 
gathering  on  the  outskirts  of  Russia,  particularly  in 
the  south  and  east.  The  call  for  volunteers  was 
a  complete  failure  from  the  start,  except  in  so  far  as 
people  joined  the  Red  army  with  the  object  of  getting 
bigger  rations  until  being  sent  to  the  front,  and  then 
deserting   at   the  first   opportunity.     So   mobilization 


MESHES  121 

orders  increased  in  frequency  and  stringency  and 
until  I  got  some  settled  occupation  I  had  to  invent 
expedients  to  keep  my  passport  papers  up  to  date. 

My  friends  the  Finnish  patrols  had  furnished  me 
with  a  renewed  document  better  worded  than  the 
last  and  with  a  later  date,  so  I  left  the  old  one  in  Fin- 
land and  now  keep  it  as  a  treasured  relic.  As  a  pre- 
cautionary measure  I  changed  my  name  to  Joseph 
Krylenko.  But  the  time  was  coming  when  even 
those  employees  of  the  Extraordinary  Commission 
who  were  not  indispensable  might  be  subject  to  mo- 
bilization. The  Tsarist  police  agents,  of  course,  and 
Chinese  and  other  foreign  hirelings,  who  eavesdropped 
and  spied  in  the  factories  and  public  places,  were  in- 
dispensable, but  the  staff  of  clerical  employees,  one 
of  whom  I  purported  to  be,  might  be  cut  down.  So 
I  had  somehow  to  get  a  document  showing  I  was 
exempt  from  military  service. 

It  was  Zorinsky  who  helped  me  out.  I  called  him 
up  the  day  after  my  return,  eager  to  have  news  of  Mel- 
nikoff.  He  asked  me  to  come  round  to  dinner  and 
I  deliberated  with  myself  whether,  having  told  him  I 
expected  to  go  to  Moscow,  I  should  let  him  know 
I  had  been  to  Finland.  I  decided  to  avoid  the  subject 
and  say  nothing  at  all. 

Zorinsky  greeted  me  warmly.  So  did  his  wife. 
As  we  seated  ourselves  at  the  dinner  table  I  noticed 
there  was  still  no  lack  of  comestibles,  though  Elena 
Ivanovna  of  course  complained. 

"Your  health,  Pavel  Ivanitch,"  exclaimed  Zo- 
rinsky as  usual,  "glad  to  see  you  back.  How  are 
things  over  there?" 

"Over  where?"  I  queried* 


122        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

"Why,  in  Finland,  of  course." 

So  he  knew  already!  It  was  a  good  thing  for  me 
that  I  had  devoted  a  deal  of  thought  to  the  enigmati- 
cal personality  of  my  companion.  I  could  not  make 
him  out.  Personally,  I  disliked  him  intensely,  yet 
he  had  already  been  of  considerable  service  and  in 
any  case  I  needed  his  assistance  to  effect  Melnikoff's 
release.  On  one  occasion  he  had  mentioned,  in  passing, 
that  he  knew  Melnikoff's  friend  Ivan  Sergeievitch, 
so  it  had  been  my  intention  to  question  the  latter  on  the 
subject  while  in  Finland,  but  he  was  away  and  I  had 
seen  no  one  else  to  ask.  The  upshot  of  my  delibera- 
tions was  that  I  resolved  to  cultivate  Zorinsky's  ac- 
quaintance for  my  own  ends,  but  until  I  knew  him 
better  never  to  betray  any  true  feelings  of  surprise, 
fear,  or  satisfaction. 

Disconcerted,  therefore,  as  I  was  by  his  knowledge 
of  my  movements,  I  managed  to  divert  my  undeniable 
confusion  into  an  expression  of  disgust. 

"Rotten,"  I  replied  with  a  good  deal  of  emphasis, 
and,  incidentally,  of  truth.  "Absolutely  rotten.  If 
people  here  think  Finland  is  going  to  do  anything 
against  the  Bolsheviks  they  are  mistaken.  I  never 
saw  such  a  mess-up  of  factions  and  feuds  in  my  life." 

"But  is  there  plenty  to  eat  there?"  put  in  Elena 
Ivanovna,  this  being  the  sole  subject  that  interested  her. 

"Oh,  yes,  there  is  plenty  to  eat,"  and  to  her  delight 
and  envy  I  detailed  a  comprehensive  list  of  delicacies 
unobtainable  in  Russia  even  by  the  theatrical  world. 

"It  is  a  pity  you  did  not  let  me  put  you  across  the 
bridge  at  Bielo'ostrof,"  observed  Zorinsky,  referring 
to  his  offer  to  assist  me  in  getting  across  the  frontier. 

"Oh,  it  was  all  right,"  I  said.     "I  had  to  leave  at  a 


MESHES  123 

moment's  notice.  It  was  a  long  and  difficult  walk, 
but  not  unpleasant." 

"I  could  have  put  you  across  quite  simply,"  he  said, 
" — both  of  you." 

"Who,  'both  of  us'?" 

"Why,  you  and  Mrs.  Marsh,  of  course." 

Phew!     So  he  knew  that,  too! 

"You  seem  to  know  a  lot  of  things,"  I  remarked,  as 
casually  as  I  could. 

"It  is  my  hobby,"  he  replied,  with  his  crooked, 
cynical  smile.  "You  are  to  be  congratulated,  I  must 
say,  on  Mrs.  Marsh's  escape.  It  was,  I  believe,  very 
neatly  executed.    You  didn't  do  it  yourself,  I  suppose?" 

"No,"  I  said,  "and,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  have  no  idea 
how  it  was  done."  I  was  prepared  to  swear  by  all 
the  gods  that  I  knew  nothing  of  the  affair. 

"Nor  have  they  any  idea  at  No.  2  Gorohovaya,"  he 
said.  "At  least,  so  I  am  told."  He  appeared  not  to 
attach  importance  to  the  matter.  "By  the  way,"  he 
continued  a  moment  later,  "I  want  to  warn  you  against 
a  fellow  I  have  heard  Marsh  was  in  touch  with.  Alexei — 
Alexei — what's  his  name? — Alexei  Fomitch  something- 
or-other — I've  forgotten  the  surname." 

The  Policeman! 

"Ever  met  him?" 

"Never  heard  of  him,"  I  said,  indifferently. 

"Look  out  if  you  do,"  said  Zorinsky,  "he  is  a  Ger- 
man spy." 

"Any  idea  where  he  lives?"  I  inquired,  in  the  same 
tone. 

"No,  he  is  registered  under  a  pseudonym,  of  course. 
But  he  doesn't  interest  me.  I  chanced  to  hear  of  him 
the  other  day  and  thought  I  would  caution  you." 


124        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

Was  it  mere  coincidence  that  Zorinsky  mentioned  the 
Policeman?     I  resolved  to  venture  a  query. 

"Any  connection  between  Mrs.  Marsh  and  this — er — 
German  spy?"  I  asked,  casually. 

"Not  that  I  know  of."  For  a  moment  a  transitory 
flash  appeared  in  his  eyes.  "You  really  think  Mrs. 
Marsh  was  ignorant  of  how  she  escaped?"  he  added. 

"I  am  positive.     She  hadn't  the  faintest  notion." 

Zorinsky  was  thoughtful.  We  changed  the  subject, 
but  after  a  while  he  approached  it  again. 

"It  is  impertinent  of  me  to  ask  questions,"  he  said, 
courteously,  "but  I  cannot  help  being  abstractly  in- 
terested in  your  chivalrous  rescue  of  Mrs.  Marsh.  I 
scarcely  expect  you  to  answer,  but  I  should,  indeed, 
be  interested  to  know  how  you  learned  she  was  free." 

"Why,  very  simply,"  I  replied.  "I  met  her  quite 
by  chance  at  a  friend's  house  and  offered  to  escort  her 
across  the  frontier." 

Zorinsky  relapsed,  and  the  subject  was  not  men- 
tioned again.  Though  it  was  clear  he  had  somehow 
established  a  connection  in  his  mind  between  the 
Policeman's  name  and  that  of  Mrs.  Marsh,  my  relief 
was  intense  to  find  him  now  on  the  wrong  tack  and 
apparently  indifferent  to  the  subject. 

As  on  the  occasion  of  my  first  visit  to  this  interesting 
personage,  I  became  so  engrossed  in  subjects  he  in- 
troduced that  I  completely  forgot  Melnikoff,  although 
the  latter  had  been  uppermost  in  my  thoughts  since  I 
successfully  landed  Mrs.  Marsh  in  Finland.  Nor  did 
the  subject  recur  to  mind  until  Zorinsky  himself 
broached  it. 

"Well,  I  have  lots  of  news  for  you,"  he  said  as  we 
moved  into  the  drawing  room  for  coffee.     "In  the  first 


MESHES  125 

place,  Vera  Alexandrovna's  cafe  is  rounded  up  and  she's 
under  lock  and  key." 

He  imparted  this  information  in  an  indifferent  tone. 

"Are  you  not  sorry  for  Vera  Alexandra vna?"  I  said. 

"Sorry?  Why  should  one  be?  She  was  a  nice  girl, 
but  foolish  to  keep  a  place  like  that,  with  all  those 
stupid  old  fogeys  babbling  aloud  like  chatterboxes.  It 
was  bound  to  be  found  out." 

I  recalled  that  this  was  exactly  what  I  had  thought 
about  the  place  myself. 

"What  induced  you  to  frequent  it?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  just  for  company,"  he  replied.  "Sometimes 
one  found  someone  to  talk  to.  Lucky  I  was  not 
there.  The  Bolsheviks  got  quite  a  haul,  I  am  told, 
something  like  twenty  people.  I  just  happened  to 
miss,  and  should  have  walked  right  into  the  trap 
next  day  had  I  not  chanced  to  find  out  just  in  time." 

My  misgivings,  then,  regarding  Vera's  secret  cafe 
had  been  correct,  and  I  was  thankful  I  had  fought  shy 
of  the  place  after  my  one  visit.  But  I  felt  very  sorry 
for  poor  Vera  Alexandra vna.  I  was  still  thinking 
of  her  when  Zorinsky  thrust  a  big  blue  sheet  of  oil 
paper  into  my  hands. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  he  asked. 

The  paper  was  a  pen-sketch  of  the  Finnish  Gulf,  but 
for  some  time  I  could  make  neither  head  nor  tail 
of  the  geometrical  designs  which  covered  it.  Only 
when  I  read  in  the  corner  the  words  Fortress  of  Cron- 
stadt,  Distribution  of  Mines,  did  I  realize  what  the 
map  really  was. 

"Plan  of  the  minefields  around  Cronstadt  and  in 
the  Finnish  Gulf,"  explained  Zorinsky.  The  mines 
lay  in  inner  and  outer  fields  and  the  course  was  shown 


126        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

which  a  vessel  would  have  to  take  to  pass  through 
safely.  The  plan  proved  subsequently  to  be  quite 
correct. 

"How  did  you  get  hold  of  it?"  I  asked,  interested 
and  amused. 

"Does  it  matter?"  he  said.  "There  is  generally  a 
way  to  do  these  things.  That  is  the  original.  If  you 
would  like  to  make  a  copy  of  it,  you  must  do  so  to-night. 
It  must  be  returned  to  its  locked  drawer  in  the  Ad- 
miralty not  later  than  half-past  nine  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 

A  few  days  later  I  secured  through  my  regular 
admiralty  connections  whom  I  met  at  the  Jour- 
nalist's confirmation  of  this  distribution  of  mines. 
They  could  not  procure  me  the  map,  but  they  gave 
a  list  of  the  latitudes  and  longitudes,  which  tallied 
precisely  with  those  shown  on  Zorinsky's  plan. 

While  I  was  still  examining  the  scheme  of  minefields 
my  companion  produced  two  further  papers  and  asked 
me  to  glance  at  them.  I  found  them  to  be  official 
certificates  of  exemption  from  military  service  on  the 
ground  of  heart  trouble,  filled  up  with  details,  date 
of  examination  (two  days  previously),  signatures  of 
the  officiating  doctor,  who  was  known  to  me  by  name, 
the  doctor's  assistant,  and  the  proxy  of  the  controlling 
commissar.  One  was  filled  out  in  the  name  of  Zorin- 
sky.  The  other  was  complete — except  for  the  name 
of  the  holder!  A  close  examination  and  comparison 
of  the  signatures  convinced  me  they  were  genuine. 
This  was  exactly  the  certificate  I  so  much  needed  to 
avoid  mobilization  and  I  began  to  think  Zorinsky  a 
genius — an  evil  genius,  perhaps,  but  still  a  genius! 

"One  for  each  of  us,"  he  observed,  laconically.    "The 


MESHES  127 

doctor  is  a  good  friend  of  mine.  I  needed  one  for  my- 
self, so  I  thought  I  might  as  well  get  one  for  you,  too. 
At  the  end  of  the  day  the  doctor  told  the  commissar's 
assistant  he  had  promised  to  examine  two  individuals 
delayed  by  business  half  an  hour  later.  There  was  no 
need  for  the  official  to  wait,  he  said ;  if  he  did  not  mind 
putting  his  signature  to  the  empty  paper,  he  assured 
him  it  would  be  all  right.  He  knew  exactly  what  was 
the  trouble  with  the  two  fellows;  they  were  genuine 
cases,  but  their  names  had  slipped  his  memory.  Of 
course,  the  commissar's  assistant  might  wait  if  he  chose, 
but  he  assured  him  it  was  unnecessary.  So  the  com- 
missar's assistant  signed  the  papers  and  departed. 
Shortly  after,  the  doctor's  assistant  did  the  same.  The 
doctor  waited  three  quarters  of  an  hour  for  his  two  cases. 
They  did  not  arrive,  and  here  are  the  exemption  cer- 
tificates.    Will  you  fill  in  your  name  at  once?" 

What?  My  name!  I  suddenly  recollected  that  I 
had  never  told  Zorinsky  what  surname  I  was  living 
under,  nor  shown  him  my  papers,  nor  initiated  him 
into  any  kind  of  personal  confidence  whatsoever.  Nor 
had  my  reticence  been  accidental.  At  every  house  I 
frequented  I  was  known  by  a  different  Christian  name 
and  patronymic  (the  Russian  mode  of  address),  and 
I  felt  intensely  reluctant  to  disclose  my  assumed  sur- 
name or  show  the  passport  in  my  possession. 

The  situation  was  one  of  great  delicacy,  however. 
Could  I  decently  refuse  to  inscribe  my  name  in  Zo- 
rinsky's  presence  after  the  various  favours  he  had  shown 
me  and  the  assistance  he  was  lending  me — especially 
by  procuring  me  the  very  exemption  certificate  I  so 
badly  needed?  Clearly  it  would  be  an  offence.  On 
the  other  hand,  I  could  not  invent  another  name  and 


128        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

thus  lose  the  document,  since  it  would  always  have 
to  be  shown  together  with  a  regular  passport.  To 
gain  time  for  reflection  I  picked  up  the  certificate  to 
examine  it  again. 

The  longer  I  thought  the  clearer  I  realized  that, 
genuine  though  the  certificate  undoubtedly  was,  the 
plot  had  been  laid  deliberately  to  make  me  disclose 
the  name  under  which  I  was  living!  Had  it  been  the 
Journalist,  or  even  the  Policeman,  I  should  not  have 
hesitated,  certainly  not  have  winced  as  I  did  now. 
But  it  was  Zorinsky,  the  clever,  cynical,  and  mysterious 
Zorinsky,  for  whom  I  suddenly  conceived,  as  I  cast 
a  sidelong  glance  at  him,  a  most  intense  and  over- 
powering   repugnance. 

Zorinsky  caught  my  sidelong  glance.  He  was  lolling 
in  a  rocking  chair,  with  a  bland  expression  on  his  mis- 
formed  face  as  he  swung  forward  and  backward,  intent 
on  his  nails.  He  looked  up,  and  as  our  eyes  met  for 
the  merest  instant  I  saw  he  had  not  failed  to  note  my 
hesitation. 

I  dropped  into  the  desk  chair  and  seized  a  pen. 

"Certainly,"  I  said,  "I  will  inscribe  my  name  at 
once.     This  is,   indeed,   a  godsend." 

Zorinsky  rose  and  stood  at  my  side.  "You  must 
imitate  the  writing,"  he  said.  "I  am  sorry  I  am  not 
a  draftsman  to  assist  you." 

I  substituted  a  pencil  for  the  pen  and  began  to  draw 
my  name  in  outline,  copying  letters  from  the  hand- 
writing on  the  certificate.  I  rapidly  detected  the  es- 
sentials of  the  handwriting,  and  Zorinsky  applauded 
admiringly  as  I  traced  the  words — Joseph  Krylenko. 
Vs'hvn  they  were  done  I  finished  them  off  in  ink  and 
laid  down  the  pen,  very  satisfied. 


MESHES  129 

"Occupation?"  queried  my  companion,  as  quietly 
as  if  he  were  asking  the  hour. 

Occupation!  A  revolver-shot  at  my  ear  could  not 
have  startled  me  more  than  this  simple  but  completely 
unexpected  query!  The  two  blank  lines  I  took  to  be 
left  for  the  name  only,  but,  locking  closer,  I  saw  that 
the  second  was,  indeed,  intended  for  the  holder's  busi- 
ness or  occupation.  The  word  zaniatia  (occupation) 
was  not  printed  in  full,  but  abbreviated — zan.,  while 
these  three  letters  were  concealed  by  the  scrawling 
handwriting  of  the  line  below,  denoting  the  age 
"  thirty, "  written  out  in  full. 

I  managed  somehow  not  to  jump  out  of  my 
seat.  "Is  it.  essential?"  I  asked.  "I  have  no  occu- 
pation." 

"Then  you  must  invent  one,"  he  replied.  "You 
must  have  some  sort  of  passport  with  you.  What 
do  you  show  the  guards  in  the  street?  Copy  what- 
ever you  have  from  that." 

Cornered!  I  had  put  my  foot  in  it  nicely.  Zo- 
rinsky  was  inquisitive  for  some  reason  or  other  to 
learn  how  I  was  living  and  under  what  name,  and  had 
succeeded  effectually  in  discovering  part  at  least  of 
what  he  wanted  to  know.  There  was  nothing  for  it. 
I  reluctantly  drew  my  passport  of  the  Extraordinary 
Commission  from  my  pocket  in  order  that  I  might 
copy  the  exact  wording. 

"May  I  see?"  asked  my  companion,  picking  up  the 
paper.  I  scrutinized  his  face  as  he  slowly  perused  it. 
An  amused  smile  flickered  round  his  crooked  mouth, 
one  end  of  which  jutted  up  into  his  cheek.  "A  very 
nice  passport,  indeed,"  he  said,  finally,  looking  with 
peculiar  care  at  the  signatures.     "It  will  be  a  long 


130        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

time  before  you  land  in  the  cells  of  No.  2  Gorohovaya 
if  you  continue  like  this." 

He  turned  the  paper  over.  Fortunately  the  regu- 
lation had  not  yet  been  published  rendering  all  "docu- 
ments of  identification"  invalid  unless  stamped  by  one's 
house  committee,  showing  the  full  address.  So  there 
was  nothing  on  the  back. 

"You  are  a  pupil  of  Melnikoff,  that  is  clear,"  he 
said,  laying  the  paper  down  on  the  desk.  "By  the 
way,  I  have  something  to  tell  you  about  Melnikoff. 
But  finish  your  writing  first." 

I  soon  inscribed  my  occupation  of  clerk  in  an  office  of 
the  Extraordinary  Commission,  adding  also  "six"  to 
the  age  to  conform  with  my  other  papers.  As  I 
traced  the  letters  I  tried  to  sum  up  the  situation. 
Melnikoff,  I  hoped,  would  now  soon  be  free,  but  mis- 
givings began  to  arise  regarding  my  own  position, 
which  I  had  a  disquieting  suspicion  had  in  some  way 
become  jeopardized  as  a  result  of  the  disclosures  I 
had  had  to  make  that  evening  to  Zorinsky. 

When  I  had  finished  I  folded  the  exemption  certifi- 
cate and  put  it  with  my  passport  in  my  pocket. 

"Well,  what  is  the  news  of  Melnikoff?"  I  said. 

Zorinsky  was  engrossed  in  Pravda,  the  official  press 
organ  of  the  Communist  Party.  "I  beg  your  pardon? 
Oh,  yes — Melnikoff.  I  have  no  doubt  he  will  be 
released,  but  the  investigator  wants  the  whole  G0,000 
roubles   first." 

"That  is  strange,"  I  observed,  surprised.  "You 
told  me  he  would  only  want  the  second  half  after 
Melnikoff's  release." 

"True.  But  I  suppose  now  he  fears  he  won't  have 
time  to  get  it,  since  he  also  will  have  to  quit." 


tf 


p. 


MESHES  131 

"And  meanwhile  what  guarantee  have  I — have 
we — that  the  investigator  will  fulfill  his  pledge?" 

Zorinsky  looked  indifferently  over  the  top  of  his 
newspaper. 

"Guarantee?  None,"  he  replied,  in  his  usual  la- 
conic manner. 

"Then  wThy  the  devil  should  I  throw  away  another 
30,000  roubles  on  the  off-chance " 

"You  needn't  if  you  don't  want  to,"  he  put  in, 
in  the  same  tone. 

"Are  you  not  interested  in  the  subject?"  I  said, 
secretly  indignant  at  his  manner. 

"Of  course  I  am.  But  what  is  the  use  of  getting 
on  one's  hind  legs  about  it?  The  investigator  wants 
his  money  in  advance.  Without  it  he  will  certainly 
risk  nothing.  With  it,  he  may,  and  there's  an  end  of 
it.  If  I  were  you  I  would  pay  up,  if  you  want  Melnikoff 
let  out.  What  is  the  good  of  losing  your  first  30,000 
for  nothing?     You  won't  get  that  back,  anyway." 

I  thought  for  a  moment.  It  seemed  to  me  highly 
improbable  that  a  rascal  investigator,  having  got 
his  money,  would  deliberately  elect  to  put  his  neck 
in  a  noose  to  save  someone  he  didn't  care  two  pins 
about.  Was  there  no  other  means  of  effecting  the 
escape?  I  thought  of  the  Policeman.  But  with 
inquiries  being  made  along  one  line,  inquiries  along 
a  second  would  doubtless  be  detected  by  the  first,  with 
all  sorts  of  undesirable  complications  and  discoveries. 
An  idea  occurred  to  me. 

"Can  we  not  threaten  the  life  of  the  investigator 
if  he  plays  false?"  I  suggested. 

Zorinsky  considered.  "You  mean  hire  someone 
to  shoot  him?     That  would  cost  a  lot  of  money  and 


132        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

we  should  be  in  the  hands  of  our  hired  assassin  as 
much  as  we  are  now  in  those  of  our  investigator, 
while  if  he  were  shot  we  should  lose  the  last  chance 
of  saving  Melnikoff.  Besides,  the  day  after  we  threaten 
the  investigator's  life  he  will  decamp  with  the  first 
thirty  thousand  in  his  pocket.  Pay  up,  Pavel  Ivan- 
itch,  pay  up  and  take  the  chance — that's  my  advice." 

Zorinsky  picked  up  his  paper  and  went  on  reading. 

What  should  I  do?  Faint  though  the  chance  seemed 
I  resolved  to  take  it,  as  it  was  the  only  one.  I  told 
Zorinsky  I  would  bring  him  the  money  on  the  morrow. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  adding  thoughtfully,  as  he 
laid  aside  the  newspaper,  "by  the  way,  I  think  you 
were  perhaps  right  about  threatening  the  investigator's 
life.  Yes.  It  is  not  a  bad  idea.  He  need  not  know 
we  know  we  are  really  powerless.  We  will  tell  him 
he  is  being  tracked  and  cannot  escape  us.  I  will 
see  what  can  be  done  about  it.  You  are  right,  after 
all,  Pavel  Ivanitch." 

Satisfied  at  having  made  this  suggestion,  I  set 
about  to  copy  the  map  of  the  minefields  and  then  re- 
tired for  the  night. 

Not  to  sleep,  however.  For  hours  I  paced  up  and 
down  the  soft  carpet,  recalling  every  word  of  the 
evening's  conversation,  and  trying  to  invent  a  means 
of  making  myself  again  independent  of  Zorinsky. 

Would  Melnikoff  be  released?  The  prospects  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  diminished.  Meanwhile,  Zorinsky 
knew  my  name,  and  might,  for  all  I  knew,  out  of 
sheer  curiosity,  be  designing  to  discover  my  haunts 
and  acquaintances.  I  recalled  poignantly  how  I  had 
been  cornered  that  evening  and  forced  to  show  him 
my  passport. 


MESHES  133 

With  this  train  of  thought  I  took  my  newly  pro- 
cured exemption  certificate  from  my  pocket  and  ex- 
amined it  again.  Yes,  it  certainly  was  a  treasure. 
"Incurable  heart- trouble " — that  meant  permanent 
exemption.  With  this  and  my  passport,  I  considered, 
I  might  with  comparative  safety  even  register  myself 
and  take  regular  rooms  somewhere  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  town.  However,  I  resolved  I  would  not  do  that 
as  long  as  I  could  conveniently  live  in  the  centre  of 
the  city,  moving  about  from  house  to  house. 

The  only  thing  I  did  not  like  about  my  new  "docu- 
ment" was  its  patent  newness.  I  have  never  yet  seen 
anybody  keep  tidy  "documents"  in  Russia,  the  normal 
condition  of  a  passport  being  the  verge  of  dissolution. 
There  was  no  need  to  reduce  my  certificate  to  that 
state  at  once,  since  it  was  only  two  days  old,  but  I 
decided  that  I  would  at  least  fold  and  crumple  it  as 
much  as  my  passport,  which  was  only  five  days  old.  I 
took  the  paper  and,  folding  it  tightly  in  four,  pressed 
the  creases  firmly  between  finger  and  thumb.  Then, 
laying  it  on  the  table,  I  squeezed  the  folds  under 
my  thumb-nail,  drawing  the  paper  backward  and 
forward.  Finally,  the  creases  looking  no  longer  new, 
I  began  to  ruffle  the  edges. 

And  then  a  miracle  occurred! 

You  know,  of  course,  the  conundrum:  "Why 
is  paper  money  preferable  to  coin?" — the  answer 
being,  "Because  when  you  put  it  in  your  pocket  you 
double  it,  and  when  you  take  it  out  you  find  it  in 
creases."  Well,  that  is  what  literally  did  occur  with 
my  exemption  certificate!  While  holding  it  in  my 
hands  and  ruffling  the  edges,  the  paper  all  at  once 
appeared  to  move  of  itself,  and,  rather  like  protozoa 


134        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

propagating  its  species,  most  suddenly  and  unexpec- 
tedly divided,  revealing  to  my  astonished  eyes  not 
one  exemption  certificate — but  two.' 

Two  of  the  printed  sheets  had  by  some  means  be- 
come so  closely  stuck  together  that  it  was  only  when 
the  edges  were  ruffled  that  they  fell  apart,  and  neither 
the  doctor  nor  Zorinsky  had  noted  it.  Here  was  the 
means  of  eluding  Zorinsky  by  filling  in  another  paper! 
How  shall  I  describe  my  joy  at  the  unlooked-for  dis- 
covery! The  nervous  reaction  was  so  intense  that, 
much  to  my  own  amusement,  I  found  tears  streaming 
down  my  cheeks.  I  laughed  and  felt  like  the  Count 
of  Monte  Cristo  unearthing  his  treasure — until, 
sobering  down  a  little,  I  recollected  that  the  blank 
form  was  quite  useless  until  I  had  another  passport 
to  back  it  up. 

That  night  I  thrashed  out  my  position  thoroughly 
and  determined  on  a  line  of  action.  Zorinsky,  I 
reflected,  was  a  creature  whom  in  ordinary  life  I 
should  have  been  inclined  to  shun  like  pest.  I  record 
here  only  those  incidents  and  conversations  which 
bear  on  my  story,  but  when  not  discussing  "business" 
he  lavished  a  good  deal  of  gratuitous  information 
about  his  private  life,  particularly  of  regimental  days, 
which  was  revolting.  But  in  the  abnormal  circum- 
stances in  which  I  lived,  to  "cut"  with  anybody  with 
whom  I  had  once  formed  a  close  association  was  very 
difficult,  and  in  Zorinsky's  case  doubly  so.  Suppose 
he  saw  me  in  the  street  afterward,  or  heard  of  me 
through  any  of  his  numerous  connections?  Pursuing 
his  "hobby"  of  contrc-cspionage  he  would  surely  not 
fail  to  follow  the  movements  of  a  star  of  the  first 
magnitude   like   myself.     There   was    no  course   open 


MESHES  135 

but  to  remain  on  good  terms  and  profit  to  the  full  by 
the  information  I  obtained  from  him  and  the  people 
I  occasionally  met  at  his  house — information  which 
proved  to  be  invariably  correct.  But  he  must  learn 
nothing  of  my  other  movements,  and  in  this  respect 
I  felt  the  newly  discovered  blank  exemption  form 
would  surely  be  of  service.  I  had  only  to  procure 
another  passport  from  somewhere  or  other. 

What  was  Zorinsky's  real  attitude  toward  Melnikoff, 
I  wondered?  How  well  had  they  known  each  other? 
If  only  I  had  some  means  of  checking — but  I  knew  none 
of  Melnikoff' s  connections  in  Russia.  He  had  lived  at 
a  hospital.  He  had  spoken  of  a  doctor  friend.  I  had 
already  twice  seen  the  woman  at  the  lodge  to  which  he 
had  directed  me.     I  thought  hard  for  a  moment. 

Yes,  good  idea !  On  the  morrow  I  would  resort  once 
more  to  Melnikoff' s  hospital  on  The  Islands,  question 
the  woman  again,  and,  if  possible,  seek  an  interview 
with  the  doctor.  Perhaps  he  could  shed  light  on  the 
matter.  Thus  deciding,  I  threw  myself  dressed  on  the 
bed  and  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  V 

MELNIKOFF 

Some  three  weeks  later,  on  a  cold  Sunday  morning 
in  January,  I  sat  in  the  Doctor's  study  at  his  small  flat 
in  one  of  the  big  houses  at  the  end  of  the  Kamenostrov- 
sky  Prospect.  The  news  had  just  arrived  that  the 
German  Communist  leaders,  Karl  Liebknecht  and  Rosa 
Luxembourg,  had  been  killed  in  Berlin,  the  former  in 
attempted  flight,  the  latter  mobbed  by  an  incensed 
crowd.  Nobody  in  Russia  had  any  idea  who  these  two 
people  were,  but  their  deaths  caused  consternation  in 
the  Communist  camp,  for  they  had  been  relied  upon 
to  pull  off  a  Red  revolution  in  Germany  and  thus  accele- 
rate the  wave  of  Bolshevism  westward  across  Europe. 

Little  known  as  Liebknecht  and  Luxembourg  had 
been  outside  Germany  until  the  time  of  their  death,  in 
the  hierarchy  of  Bolshevist  saints  they  were  placed 
second  only  to  Karl  Marx  and  Engels,  the  Moses  and 
Aaron  of  the  Communist  Party.  Russians  are  noted 
for  their  veneration  of  ikons,  representing  to  them  the 
memory  of  saintly  lives,  but  their  religious  devotion 
is  equalled  by  that  of  the  Bolsheviks.  Though  he  does 
not  cross  himself,  the  true  Bolshevik  bows  down  in  spirit 
to  the  images  of  Marx  and  kindred  revolutionists  with 
an  obsequiousness  unexcelled  by  devotees  of  the  church. 
The  difference  in  the  two  creeds  lies  in  this:  that  whereas 
the  orthodox  Christian  venerates  saintly  lives  according 
to  their  degree  of  unworldliness,  individual  goodness, 

J  36 


MELNIKOFF  137 

and  spiritual  sanctity,  the  Bolsheviks  revere  their  saints 
for  the  vehemence  with  which  they  promoted  the  class 
war,  fomented  discontent,  and  preached  world-wide 
revolution. 

To  what  extent  humanity  suffered  as  the  result  of  the 
decease  of  the  two  German  Communists,  I  am  unable 
to  judge,  but  their  loss  was  regarded  by  the  revolution- 
ary leaders  as  a  catastrophe  of  the  first  magnitude. 
The  official  press  had  heavy  headlines  about  it,  and 
those  who  read  the  papers  asked  one  another  who  the 
two  individuals  could  have  been.  Having  studied  the 
revolutionary  movement  to  some  extent,  I  was  better 
able  to  appreciate  the  mortification  of  the  ruling  party, 
and  was  therefore  interested  in  the  great  public  demon- 
stration announced  for  that  day  in  honour  of  the  dead. 

My  new  friend  the  Doctor  was  both  puzzled  and 
amused  by  my  attitude. 

"I  can  understand  your  being  here  as  an  intelligence 
officer,"  he  said.  "After  all,  your  Government  has  to 
have  someone  to  keep  them  informed,  though  it  must 
be  unpleasant  for  you.  But  why  you  should  take  it 
into  your  head  to  go  rushing  round  to  all  the  silly  meet- 
ings and  demonstrations  the  way  you  do  is  beyond  me. 
And  the  stuff  you  read !  You  have  only  been  here  three 
or  four  times,  but  you  have  left  a  train  of  papers  and 
pamphlets  enough  to  open  a  propaganda  department." 

The  Doctor,  who  I  learned  from  the  woman  at  the 
lodge  was  Melnikoff's  uncle,  was  a  splendid  fellow.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  sided  wholeheartedly  with  the 
revolution  in  March,  1917,  and  held  very  radical  views, 
but  he  thought  more  than  spoke  about  them.  His 
nephew,  Melnikoff,  on  the  contrary,  together  with  a 
considerable  group  of  officers,  had  opposed  the  revolu- 


138        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

tion  from  the  outset,  but  the  Doctor  had  not  quarrelled 
with  them,  realizing  one  cardinal  truth  the  Bolsheviks 
appear  to  fail  to  grasp,  namely,  that  the  criterion  where- 
by men  must  ultimately  be  judged  is  not  politics,  but 
character. 

The  Doctor  had  a  young  and  very  intelligent  friend 
named  Shura,  who  had  been  a  bosom  friend  of  Melni- 
koff's.  Shura  was  a  law  student.  He  resembled  the 
Doctor  in  his  radical  sympathies  but  differed  from  both 
him  and  Melnikoff  in  that  he  was  given  to  philosophiz- 
ing and  probing  deeply  beneath  the  surface  of  things. 
Many  were  the  discussions  we  had  together,  when, 
some  weeks  later,  I  came  to  know  Shura  well. 

"Communist  speeches,"  he  used  to  say,  "often  sound 
like  a  tale  told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury  signi- 
fying nothing.  But  behind  the  interminable  jargon 
there  lie  both  an  impulse  and  an  ideal.  The  ideal  is  a 
proletarian  millenium,  but  the  impulse  is  not  love  of 
the  worker,  but  hatred  of  the  bourgeois.  The  Bolshevik 
believes  if  a  perfect  proletarian  state  be  forcibly 
established  by  destroying  the  bourgeoisie,  the  perfect 
proletarian  citizen  will  automatically  result!  There 
will  be  no  crime,  no  prisons,  no  need  of  government. 
But  by  persecuting  liberals  and  denying  freedom  of 
thought  the  Bolsheviks  are  driving  independent  think- 
ers into  the  camp  of  that  very  section  of  society  whose 
provocative  conduct  caused  Bolshevism !  That  is  why 
I  will  fight  to  oust  the  Bolsheviks,"  said  Shura,  "they 
are  impedimenta  in  the  path  of  the  revolution." 

It  had  been  a  strange  interview  when  I  first  called  on 
the  Doctor  and  announced  myself  as  a  friend  of  Melni- 
koff's.  He  sat  bolt  upright,  smiling  affably,  and  ob- 
viously ready  for  every  conceivable  contingency.     The 


MELNIKOFF  139 

last  thing  in  the  world  he  was  prepared  to  do  was  to  be- 
lieve me.  I  told  him  all  I  could  about  his  nephew  and 
he  evidently  thought  I  was  very  clever  to  know  so  much. 
He  was  polite  but  categorical.  No,  sir,  he  knew  nothing 
whatsoever  of  his  nephew's  movements,  it  was  good  of 
me  to  interest  myself  in  his  welfare,  but  he  himself  had 
ceased  to  be  interested.  I  might  possibly  be  an  English- 
man, as  I  said,  but  he  had  never  heard  his  nephew  men- 
tion an  Englishman.  He  had  no  knowledge  nor  any 
desire  for  information  as  to  his  nephew's  past,  present, 
or  future,  and  if  his  nephew  had  engaged  in  counter' 
revolutionary  activities  it  was  his  own  fault.  I  could 
not  but  admire  the  placidity  and  suavity  with  which  he 
said  all  this,  and  cursed  the  disguise  which  made  me 
look  so  unlike  what  I  wanted  the  Doctor  to  see. 

"Do  you  speak  English?"  I  said  at  last,  getting  ex- 
asperated. 

I  detected  a  twinge — ever  so  slight.  "A  little,"  he 
replied. 

"Then,  damn  it  all,  man,"  I  exclaimed  in  English, 
rising  and  striking  my  chest  with  my  fist — rather  melo- 
dramatically, it  must  have  seemed — "why  the  devil 
can't  you  see  I  am  an  Englishman  and  not  a  provocateur? 
Melnikoff  must  have  told  you  something  about  me. 
Except  for  me  he  wouldn't  have  come  back  here.  Didn't 
he  tell  you  how  we  stayed  together  at  Viborg,  how  he 
helped  dress  me,  how  he  drank  all  my  whisky,  how " 

The  Doctor  all  at  once  half  rose  from  his  seat.  The 
urbane,  fixed  smile  that  had  not  left  his  lips  since  the 
beginning  of  the  interview  suddenly  burst  into  a  half- 
laugh. 

"Was  it  you  who  gave  him  the  whisky?"  he  broke  in, 
in  Russian. 


140        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

"Of  course  it  was,"  I  replied.     "I " 


"That  settles  it,"  he  said,  excitedly.  "Sit  down,  I'll 
be  back  in  a  moment." 

He  left  the  room  and  walked  quickly  to  the  front  door. 
Half  suspecting  treachery,  I  peered  out  into  the  hall  and 
feeling  for  the  small  revolver  I  carried,  looked  round  to 
see  if  there  were  any  way  of  escape  in  an  emergency. 
The  Doctor  opened  the  front  door,  stepped  on  to  the 
landing,  looked  carefully  up  and  down  the  stairs,  and, 
returning,  closed  all  the  other  doors  in  the  hall  before 
reentering  the  cabinet.  He  walked  over  to  where  I 
stood  and  looked  me  straight  in  the  face. 

"Why  on  earth  didn't  you  come  before?"  he  ex- 
claimed, speaking  in  a  low  voice. 


We  rapidly  became  friends.  Melnikoff's  disappear- 
ance had  been  a  complete  mystery  to  him,  a  mystery 
which  he  had  no  means  of  solving.  He  had  never  heard 
of  Zorinsky,  but  names  meant  nothing.  He  thought  it 
strange  that  so  high  a  price  should  be  demanded  for 
Melnikoff,  and  thought  I  had  been  unwise  to  give  it  all 
in  advance  under  any  circumstances;  but  he  was  none 
the  less  overjoyed  to  hear  of  the  prospects  of  his  re- 
lease. 

After  every  visit  to  Zorinsky  I  called  on  the  Doctor 
to  tell  him  the  latest  news.  On  this  particular  morning 
I  had  told  him  how  the  evening  before,  in  a  manner 
which  I  disliked  intensely,  Zorinsky  had  shelved  the 
subject,  giving  evasive  answers.  We  had  passed  the 
middle  of  January  already,  yet  apparently  there  was  no 
information  whatever  as  to  Melnikoff's  case. 

"There  is  another  thing,  too,  that  disquiets  me,  Doc- 


MELN1K0FF  141 

tor,"  I  added.  "Zorinsky  shows  undue  curiosity  as  to 
where  I  go  when  I  am  not  at  his  house.  He  happens  to 
know  the  passport  on  which  I  am  living,  and  examina- 
tion of  papers  being  so  frequent,  I  wish  I  could  get  an- 
other one.  Have  you  any  idea  what  Melnikoff  would 
do  in  such  circumstances?" 

The  Doctor  paced  up  and  down  the  room. 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  the  name?"  he  asked. 

I  showed  him  all  my  documents,  including  the  exemp- 
tion certificate,  explaining  how  I  had  received  them. 

"Well,  well,  your  Mr.  Zorinsky  certainly  is  a  useful 
friend  to  have,  I  must  say,"  he  observed,  looking  at  the 
certificate,  and  wagging  his  head  knowingly.  "By  the 
way,  does  he  cost  you  much,  if  one  may  ask?" 

"He  himself?  Nothing  at  all,  or  very  little.  Be- 
sides the  sixty  thousand  for  IMelnikoff,"  I  calculated, 
"I  have  given  him  a  few  thousand  for  odd  expenses  con- 
nected with  the  case;  I  insist  on  paying  for  meals;  I 
gave  his  wife  an  expensive  bouquet  at  New  Year  with 
which  she  was  very  pleased;  then  I  have  given  him 
money  for  the  relief  of  Melnikoff's  sister,  and " 

"For  MelnikofT's  sister?"  ejaculated  the  Doctor. 
"But  he  hasn't  got  one!" 

Vol  tibie  nd!  No  sister — then  where  did  the  money 
go?  I  suddenly  remembered  Zorinsky  had  cnce  asked 
if  I  could  give  him  English  money.     I  told  the  Doctor. 

"Look  out,  my  friend,  look  out,"  he  said.  "Your 
friend  is  certainly  a  clever  and  a  useful  man.  But  I'm 
afraid  you  will  have  to  go  on  paying  for  MelnikofT's 
non-existent  sister.  It  would  not  do  for  him  to  know 
you  had  found  out.  As  for  your  passport,  I  will  ask 
Shura.  By  the  way,"  he  added,  "it  is  twelve  o'clock. 
Will  you  not  be  late  for  your  precious  demonstration?" 


142        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

I  hurried  to  leave.  "I  will  let  you  know  how  things 
go,"  I  said.     "I  will  be  back  in  two  or  three  days." 

The  morning  was  a  frosty  one  with  a  bitter  wind. 
No  street  cars  ran  on  Sundays  and  I  walked  into  town 
to  the  Palace  Square,  the  great  space  in  front  of  the 
Winter  Palace,  famous  for  another  January  Sunday — 
"Bloody  Sunday" — thirteen  years  before.  Much  had 
been  made  in  the  press  of  the  present  occasion,  and  it 
appeared  to  be  taken  for  granted  that  the  proletariat 
would  surge  to  bear  testimony  to  their  grief  for  the  fallen 
German  Communists.  But  round  the  base  of  a  red- 
bedizened  tribune  in  the  centre  of  the  square  there  clus- 
tered a  mere  handful  of  people  and  two  rows  of  soldiers, 
stamping  to  keep  their  feet  warm.  The  crowd  con- 
sisted of  the  sturdy  Communist  veterans  who  organized 
the  demonstration,  and  on-lookers  who  always  join  any 
throng  to  see  whatever  is  going  on. 

As  usual  the  proceedings  started  late,  and  the  small 
but  patient  crowd  was  beginning  to  dwindle  before  the 
chief  speakers  arrived.  A  group  of  commonplace-look- 
ing individuals,  standing  on  the  tribune,  lounged  and 
smoked  cigarettes,  apparently  not  knowing  exactly 
what  to  do  with  themselves.  I  pushed  myself  forward 
to  be  as  near  the  speakers  as  possible. 

To  my  surprise  I  noticed  Dmitri,  Stepanovna's 
nephew,  among  the  soldiers  who  stood  blowing  on 
their  hands  and  looking  miserable.  I  moved  a  few  steps 
away,  so  that  he  might  not  see  me.  I  was  afraid  he 
would  make  some  sign  of  recognition  which  might  lead 
to  questions  by  his  comrades,  and  I  had  no  idea  who 
they  might  be.  But  I  was  greatly  amused  at  seeing  him 
at  a  demonstration  of  this  sort. 

At  length  an  automobile  dashed  up,  and  amid  faint 


MELNIKOFF  143 

cheers  and  to  the  accompaniment  of  bugles,  Zinoviev, 
president  of  the  Petrograd  Soviet,  alighted  and  mounted 
the  tribune.  Zinoviev,  whose  real  name  is  Apfelbaum, 
is  a  very  important  person  in  Bolshevist  Russia.  He  is 
considered  one  of  the  greatest  orators  of  the  Commun- 
ist party,  and  now  occupies  the  proud  position  of  presi- 
dent of  the  Third  International,  the  institution  that  is  to 
effect  the  world  revolution. 

It  is  to  his  oratorical  skill  rather  than  any  administra- 
tive ability  that  Zinoviev  owes  his  prominence.  His 
rhetoric  is  of  a  peculiar  order.  He  is  unrivalled  in  his 
appeal  to  the  ignorant  mob,  but,  judging  by  his  speeches, 
logic  is  unknown  to  him,  and  on  no  thinking  audience 
could  he  produce  any  impression  beyond  that  of  wonder- 
ment at  his  uncommon  command  of  language,  ready 
though  cheap  witticisms,  and  inexhaustible  fund  of 
florid  and  vulgar  invective.  Zinoviev  is,  in  fact, 
the  consummate  gutter-demagogue.  He  is  a  coward, 
shirked  office  in  November,  1917,  fearing  the  instability 
of  the  Bolshevist  coup,  has  since  been  chief  advocate  of 
all  the  insaner  aspects  of  Bolshevism,  and  is  always  the 
first  to  lose  his  head  and  fly  into  a  panic  when  danger- 
clouds  appear  on  any  horizon. 

Removing  his  hat  Zinoviev  approached  the  rail,  and 
stood  there  in  his  rich  fur  coat  until  someone  down  be- 
low gave  a  signal  to  cheer.  Then  he  began  to  speak  in 
the  following  strain: 

"Comrades!  Wherefore  are  we  gathered  here  to- 
day? What  mean  this  tribune  and  this  concourse  of 
people?  Is  it  to  celebrate  a  triumph  of  world-revolution, 
to  hail  another  conquest  over  the  vicious  ogre  of 
Capitalism?  Alas,  no!  To-day  we  mourn  the  two 
greatest  heroes  of  our  age,  murdered  deliberately,  bru- 


144        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

tally,  and  in  cold  blocd  by  blackguard  capitalist  agents. 
The  German  Government,  consisting  of  the  social- 
traitor  Scheidemann  and  other  supposed  Socialists,  the 
scum  and  dregs  of  humanity,  have  sold  themselves  like 
Judas  Iscariot  for  thirty  shekels  of  silver  to  the  German 
bourgeoisie,  and  at  the  command  of  the  capitalists  or- 
dered their  paid  hirelings  foully  to  murder  the  two 
chosen  representatives  of  the  German  workers  and 
peasants     ...      "  and  so  on. 

I  never  listened  to  Zinoviev  without  recalling  a  meet- 
ing in  the  summer  of  1917  when  he  was  the  chief  speaker. 
He  had  just  returned  to  Russia  with  a  group  of  other 
Bolshevist  leaders  (very  few  of  whom  were  present 
during  the  revolution)  and  held  incendiary  meetings  in 
out-of-the-way  places.  He  was  thin  and  slim  and 
looked  the  typical  Jewish  student  of  any  Russian  uni- 
versity. But  after  a  year's  fattening  on  the  Russian 
proletariat  he  had  swelled  not  only  politically  but  physi- 
cally, and  his  full,  handsome  features  and  flowing  bushy 
hair  spoke  of  anything  but  privation. 

Contrary  to  custom,  Zinoviev's  speech  was  short. 
It  must  have  been  cold,  speaking  in  the  chilly  wind,  and 
in  any  case  there  were  not  many  people  to  talk  to. 

The  next  speaker  was  more  novel — Herr  Otto  Pertz, 
president  of  the  German  Soviet  of  Petrograd.  Why  a 
German  Soviet  continued  to  live  and  move  and  have  its 
being  in  Petrograd,  or  what  its  functions  were,  nobody 
seemed  to  know.  The  comings  and  goings  of  unsere 
deutsche  Genossen  appeared  to  be  above  criticism  and 
were  always  a  mystery.  Herr  Otto  Pertz  was  tall, 
clean  shaven,  Germanly  tidy,  and  could  not  speak 
Russian. 

"Genossen  !  heute  feiern  wir "  he  began,  and  pro- 


MELNIKOFF  145 

ceeded  to  laud  the  memory  of  the  fallen  heroes  and 
to  foretell  the  coming  social  revolution  in  Germany. 
The  dastardly  tyrants  of  Berlin,  insolently  styling 
themselves  Socialists,  would  shortly  be  overthrown. 
Kapitalismus ,  Imperialismvs,  in  fact  everything  but  Kom- 
munismus,  would  be  demolished.  He  had  information 
that  within  a  week  or  two  Spartacus  (the  German 
Bolshevist  group),  with  all  Germany  behind  it,  would 
successfully  seize  power  in  Berlin  and  join  in  a  triumph- 
ant and  indissoluble  alliance  with  the  Russian  Socialist 
Federative  Soviet  Republic. 

As  Otto  Pertz  commenced  his  oration  a  neatly  dressed 
little  lady  of  about  fifty,  who  stood  at  my  side  near  the 
foot  of  the  tribune,  looked  up  eagerly  at  the  speaker. 
Her  eyes  shone  brightly  and  her  breath  came  quickly. 
Seeing  I  had  noticed  her  she  said  timidly,  "Spricht  er 
nicht  gut?     Sagen  Sie  dock,  spricht  er  nicht  gut?" 

To  which  I  of  course  replied,  "  Sehr  gut,"  and  she 
relapsed  bashfully  into  admiration  of  Otto,  murmuring 
now  and  again,  "Ach!  es  ist  dock  wahr,  nicht?"  with 
which  sentiment  also  I  would  agree. 

The  crowd  listened  patiently,  as  the  Russian  crowd 
always  listens,  whoever  speaks,  and  on  whatever  sub- 
ject. The  soldiers  shivered  and  wondered  what  the 
speaker  was  talking  about.  His  speech  was  not  trans- 
lated. 

But  when  Otto  Pertz  ceased  there  was  a  commotion 
in  the  throng.  For  some  moments  I  was  at  a  loss 
as  to  what  was  in  progress,  until  at  last  a  passage  was 
made  and,  borne  on  valiant  Communist  shoulders,  a 
guy  was  produced,  the  special  attraction  of  the  day. 
The  effigy,  made  of  pasteboard,  represented  a  ferocious- 
looking  German  with  Kaiserlike  moustachios,  clothed 


146        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

in  evening  dress,  and  bearing  across  its  chest  in  large 
letters  on  cardboard  the  name  of  the  German  Socialist, 

SCHEIDEMANN. 

At  the  same  time  an  improvised  gallows  was  thrust 
over  the  balustrade  of  the  tribune.  Amid  curses,  jeers, 
and  execrations,  the  moustachioed  effigy  was  raised 
aloft.  Eager  hands  attached  the  dangling  loop  and 
there  it  hung,  most  abjectly,  most  melancholy,  en- 
cased in  evening  dress  and  black  trousers  with  hollow 
extremities  flapping  in  the  breeze. 

The  crowd  awoke  and  tittered  and  even  the  soldiers 
smiled.  Dmitri,  I  could  see,  was  laughing  outright. 
This  was  after  all  worth  coming  to  see.  Kerosene  was 
poured  on  the  dangling  Scheidemann  and  he  was  set 
alight.  There  were  laughter,  howls,  and  fanfares. 
Zinoviev,  in  tragic  pose,  with  uplifted  arm  and  pointed 
finger,  cried  hoarsely,  "Thus  perish  traitors!"  The  bu- 
gles blew.  The  people,  roused  with  delight,  cheered 
lustily.  Only  the  wretched  Scheidemann  was  indiffer- 
ent to  the  interest  he  was  arousing,  as  with  stony  glare 
on  his  cardboard  face  he  soared  aloft  amid  sparks  and 
ashes  into  eternity. 

Crowd  psychology,  I  mused  as  I  walked  away,  has 
been  an  important  factor  on  all  public  occasions  since 
the  revolution,  but  appreciated  to  the  full  only  by  the 
Bolsheviks.  Everyone  who  was  in  Russia  in  1917  and 
who  attended  political  meetings  when  free  speech  be- 
came a  possibility  remembers  how  a  speaker  would  get 
up  and  speak,  loudly  applauded  by  the  whole  audience; 
then  another  would  rise  and  say  the  precise  opposite, 
rewarded  with  equally  vociferous  approbation;  followed 
again  by  a  third  who  said  something  totally  at  variance 


A  typical  peasant  "bourgeois-capitalist 


- 
— 


o 


Q       C 


M 


a 


MELNIKOFF  147 

with  the  first  two,  and  how  the  enthusiasm  would  in- 
crease proportionately  to  the  bewilderment  as  to  who 
was  actually  right.  The  crowds  were  just  like  little 
children.  Totally  unaccustomed  to  free  speech,  they 
appeared  to  imagine  that  anybody  who  spoke  must 
ipso  facto  be  right.  But  just  when  the  people,  after  the 
Bolshevist  coup  d'etat,  were  beginning  to  demand  reason 
in  public  utterance  and  deeds  for  promises,  down  came 
a  super-Tsarist  Bolshevist  censorship  like  a  huge  candle- 
snuffer  and  clapping  itself  on  the  flame  of  public  criti- 
cism, snuffed  it  out  altogether. 

Public  demonstrations,  however,  were  made  an  im- 
portant item  in  the  curriculum  of  the  Bolshevist  ad- 
ministration, and  soon  became  as  compulsory  as  military 
service.  I  record  the  above  one  not  because  of  its  in- 
trinsic interest  (it  really  had  very  little),  but  because  it 
was,  I  believe,  one  of  the  last  occasions  on  which  it  was 
left  to  the  public  to  make  the  demonstration  a  success 
or  not,  and  regiments  were  merely  "invited." 

I  made  my  way  to  Stepanovna's  in  the  hope  of  meeting 
Dmitri.  He  came  in  toward  the  close  of  the  afternoon, 
and  I  asked  him  if  he  had  enjoyed  the  demonstration. 

"Too  cold,"  he  replied,  "they  ought  to  have  had  it 
on  a  warmer  day." 

"Did  you  come  voluntarily?" 

"Why,  yes."  He  pulled  out  of  the  spacious  pocket 
of  his  tunic  a  parcel  wrapped  up  in  newspaper,  and  un- 
wrapping it,  disclosed  a  pound  of  bread.  "We  were 
told  we  should  get  this  if  we  came.  It  has  just  been 
doled  out." 

Stepanovna's  eyes  opened  wide.  Deeply  interested, 
she  asked  when  the  next  demonstration  was  going  to  be. 

"Why  didn't  more  soldiers  come,  then?"  I  asked. 


148        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

"Not  enough  bread,  I  suppose,"  said  Dmitri.  "We 
have  been  getting  it  irregularly  of  late.  But  we  have  a 
new  commissar  who  is  a  good  fellow.  They  say  in 
the  regiment  he  gets  everything  for  us  first.  He  talks 
to  us  decently,  too.  I  am  beginning  to  like  him.  Per- 
haps he  is  not  one  like  the  rest." 

"By  the  way,  Dmitri,"  I  said,  "do  you  happen  to 
know  who  those  people  were  for  whom  we  demonstrated 
to-day?" 

From  the  depths  of  his  crumb-filled  pocket  Dmitri 
extracted  a  crumpled  and  soiled  pamphlet.  Holding 
it  to  the  light  he  slowly  read  out  the  title:  "Who  were 
Karl  Liebknecht  and  Rosa  Luxembourg?" 

"We  were  each  given  one  yesterday,"  he  explained, 
"after  an  agitator  had  made  a  long  speech  to  us.  No- 
body listened  to  the  agitator — some  Jew  or  other — but 
the  commissar  gave  me  this.  I  read  little  nowadays, 
but  I  think  I  will  read  it  when  I  have  time." 

"And  the  speakers  and  the  guy?"  I  queried. 

"I  didn't  notice  the  speakers.  One  of  them  spoke 
not  in  our  way — German,  someone  said.  But  the  guy! 
That  was  funny !  My,  Stepanovna,  you  ought  to  have 
seen  it!  How  it  floated  up  into  the  air!  You  would 
have  cracked  your  sides  laughing.  Who  was  it  sup- 
posed to  represent,  by  the  way?" 

I  explained  how  the  revolution  in  Germany  had  re- 
sulted in  the  downfall  of  the  Kaiser  and  the  formation 
of  a  radical  cabinet  with  a  Socialist— Scheidemann — 
at  its  head.  Scheidemann  was  the  guy  to-day,  I  said, 
for  reasons  which  I  presumed  he  would  find  stated  in 
"  Who  were  Karl  Liebknecht  and  Rosa  Luxembourg  f" 

"But  if  the  Kaiser  is  out,  why  do  our  Bolsheviks  burn 
— what's  his  name ?" 


MELNIKOFF  149 

"Ah,  but,  Dmitri,"  I  put  in,  "if  you  had  understood 
the  German  speaker  to-day,  you  would  have  heard  him 
tell  how  there  is  shortly  to  be  another  revolution  in 
Germany  like  that  which  happened  here  in  November, 
1917,  and  they  will  set  up  a  soviet  government  like 
Lenin's." 

As  our  conversation  proceeded,  Stepanovna  and  Varia 
stopped  their  work  to  listen,  their  interest  grew  apace, 
and  at  last  they  hung  on  to  every  word  as  if  it  were  of 
profound  significance.  When  I  repeated  the  substance 
of  Otto  Pertz's  predictions,  all  three  of  my  companions 
were  listening  spellbound  and  with  mouths  agape.  There 
was  a  long  pause,  which  at  length  Stepanovna  broke. 

"Is  it  really  possible,"  she  exclaimed,  slowly,  and  ap- 
parently in  utter  bewilderment,  "that  the  Germans — 
are — such — fools  ? ' ' 


"Evasive,  Doctor,  very  evasive,"  I  said,  as  we  sat 
over  tea  and  a  few  dry  crust-biscuits  the  Doctor  had 
procured  from  somewhere.  "Yesterday  evening  he 
gave  me  some  interesting  information  about  industrial 
developments,  alteration  of  railway  administration,  and 
changes  in  the  Red  fleet;  but  the  moment  Melnikoff  is 
mentioned  then  it  is,  'Oh,  Melnikoff?  in  a  day  or  two 
I  think  we  may  know  definitely,'  or  'My  informant  is 
out  of  town,'  and  so  on." 

"Perhaps  there  is  a  hitch,  somewhere,"  suggested 
the  Doctor.  "I  suppose  there  is  nothing  to  do  but 
wait.  By  the  way,  you  wanted  a  passport,  didn't  you? 
How  will  that  suit  you?" 

I  have  forgotten  the  precise  wording  of  the  paper  he 
handed  me,  for  I  had  to  destroy  it  later,  but  it  was  an 


150        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

ordinary  certificate  of  identification,  in  the  name  of 
Alexander  Vasilievitch  Markovitch,  aged  33,  clerical 
assistant  at  the  head  Postal-Telegraph  Office.  There 
was  no  photograph  attached,  but  in  view  of  the  strict 
requirements  regarding  passports,  which  included  their 
frequent  renewal  (except  in  certain  cases  no  passports 
might  be  made  out  fcr  more  than  two  months),  and  the 
difficulty  of  getting  photographs,  the  latter  were  drop- 
ping out  of  general  use. 

"Shura  procured  it,"  the  Doctor  explained.  "A  friend 
of  his,  by  name  Markov,  arrived  recently  from  Moscow 
to  work  at  the  Telegraph  Office.  A  week  later  he 
heard  his  wife  was  seriously  ill  and  got  special  permission 
to  return.  A  week  in  Petrograd  was  enough  for  him 
anyway,  for  living  is  much  better  in  Moscow,  so  he 
doesn't  intend  to  come  back.  Shura  asked  him  for  his 
passport  and  after  Markov  had  got  his  railroad  pass 
and  paper  showing  he  was  authorized  to  return  to 
Moscow,  he  gave  it  him.  If  they  ask  for  it  in  Moscow, 
he  will  say  he  has  lost  it.  He  would  have  to  have  a 
new  one  anyway,  since  a  Petrograd  one  is  useless  there. 
My  typewriter  at  the  hospital  has  the  same  type  as 
this,  so  we  altered  the  date  a  little,  added  'itch'  to  the 
name — and  there  you  are,  if  you  wish,  a  ready-made 
postal  official." 

"What  about  clothing?"  I  said.  "I  don't  look  much 
like  a  postal  official." 

"There  is  something  more  important  than  that. 
What  about  military  service?" 

From  my  pocket  I  produced  a  new  pamphlet  on  the 
soviet  system.  Opening  a  pocket  of  the  uncut  leaves 
at  a  certain  page,  I  drew  forth  my  blank  exemption  cer- 
tificate and  exhibited  it  to  the  Doctor. 


MELNIKOFF  151 

"What  are  you,  a  prestidigitator?"  he  asked  admir- 
ingly.    "  Or  is  this  another  gift  from  your  friend  Z.  ?  " 

"The  certificates  were  born  twins,"  I  said.  "Zorin- 
sky  was  accoucheur  to  the  first,  I  to  the  second." 

In  an  hour  I  had  filled  in  the  blank  exemption  form 
with  all  particulars  relating  to  Alexander  Vasilievitch 
Markovitch.  Tracing  the  signatures  carefully,  and 
inserting  a  recent  date,  I  managed  to  produce  a  docu- 
ment indistinguishable  as  regards  authenticity  from  the 
original,  and  thus  was  possessed  of  two  sets  of  docu- 
ments, one  in  the  name  of  Krylenko  for  the  benefit  of 
Zorinsky,  the  other  in  that  of  Markovitch  for  presenta- 
tion in  the  streets  and  possible  registration. 

Considering  once  more  the  question  of  uniform  I  re- 
called that  at  my  own  rooms  where  I  had  lived  for 
years  I  had  left  a  variety  of  clothing  when  last  in  Petro- 
grad  six  or  eight  months  previously.  The  question 
was:  how  could  I  gain  admittance  to  my  rooms,  dis- 
guised as  I  was  and  with  an  assumed  name?  Further- 
more, a  telephone  call  having  elicited  no  response,  I  had 
no  idea  whether  the  housekeeper  whom  I  had  left  was 
still  there,  nor  whether  the  apartment  had  been  raided, 
locked  up,  or  occupied  by  workmen.  All  these  things 
I  was  curious  to  know,  quite  apart  from  obtaining 
clothing. 

I  enlisted  the  services  of  Varia  as  scout.  Varia  was 
the  first  person  to  whom  I  confided  my  English  name, 
and  doing  it  with  due  solemnity,  and  with  severe  cau- 
tionings  that  not  even  Stepanovna  should  be  told, 
I  could  see  that  the  girl  was  impressed  with  my  confi- 
dence in  her.  Armed  with  a  brief  note  to  my  house- 
keeper purporting  to  be  written  by  a  fictitious  friend  of 
mine,  and  warned  to  turn  back  unless  everything  were 


152        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

precisely  as  I  described,  Varia  set  out  on  a  voyage  of 
discovery. 

She  returned  to  impart  the  information  that  the  front 
door  of  the  house  being  locked  she  had  entered  by  the 
yard,  had  encountered  nobody  on  the  backstairs,  and 
that  in  answer  to  persistent  ringing  a  woman,  whom  I 
recognized  by  the  description  as  my  housekeeper,  had 
opened  the  kitchen  door  on  a  short  chain,  and,  peering 
suspiciously  through  the  chink,  had  at  first  vehemently 
denied  any  acquaintance  with  any  English  people  at 
all.  On  perusing  the  note  from  my  non-existent 
friend,  however,  she  admitted  that  an  Englishman  of 
my  name  had  formerly  lived  there,  but  she  had  the 
strictest  injunctions  from  him  to  admit  nobody  to  the 
flat. 

Pursuing  my  instructions,  Varia  informed  the  house- 
keeper that  my  friend,  Mr.  Markovitch,  had  just  ar- 
rived from  Moscow.  He  was  busy  to-day,  she  said,  and 
had  sent  her  round  to  enquire  after  my  affairs,  but 
would  call  himself  at  an  early  opportunity. 

The  one  article  of  clothing  which  I  frequently 
changed  and  of  which  I  had  a  diverse  stock  was  head- 
gear. It  is  surprising  how  headdress  can  impart  charac- 
ter (or  the  lack  of  it)  to  one's  appearance.  Donning 
my  most  bourgeois  fur-cap,  polishing  my  leather 
breeches  and  brushing  my  jacket,  I  proceeded  on  the 
following  day  to  my  former  home,  entering  by  the  yard 
as  Varia  had  done  and  ringing  at  the  back  door.  The 
house  appeared  deserted,  for  I  saw  no  one  in  the  yard, 
nor  heard  any  sounds  of  life.  When,  in  reply  to  per- 
sistent ringing,  the  door  was  opened  on  the  chain,  I  saw 
my  housekeeper  peering  through  the  chink  just  as  Varia 
had  described.    My  first  impulse  was  to  laugh,  it  seemed 


MELNIKOFF  153 

so  ridiculous  to  be  standing  on  one's  own  back  stairs, 
pretending  to  be  some  one  else,  and  begging  admittance 
to  one's  own  rooms  by  the  back  door. 

I  hadn't  time  to  laugh,  however,  The  moment  my 
housekeeper  saw  the  apparition  on  the  stairway  she 
closed  the  door  again  promptly  and  rebolted  it,  and  it 
was  only  after  a  great  deal  of  additional  knocking  and 
ringing  that  at  last  the  door  was  once  again  timidly 
opened  just  a  tiny  bit. 

Greeting  the  woman  courteously,  I  announced  my- 
self as  Mr.  Markovitch,  close  personal  friend  and  school 
companion  of  the  Englishman  who  formerly  had  occupied 
these  rooms.  My  friend,  I  said,  was  now  in  England 
and  regretted  the  impossibility  of  returning  to  Russia 
under  present  conditions.  I  had  recently  received  a 
letter  from  him,  I  declared,  brought  somehow  across 
the  frontier,  in  which,  sending  his  greetings  to  Martha 
Timofeievna  (the  housekeeper),  he  had  requested  me 
at  the  earliest  opportunity  to  visit  his  home  and  report 
on  its  condition.  To  reduce  Martha  Timofeievna's 
suspicions,  I  assured  her  that  before  the  war  I  had  been 
a  frequent  visitor  to  this  flat,  and  gave  numerous  data 
which  left  no  doubt  whatsoever  in  her  mind  that  I  was 
at  least  well  acquainted  with  the  arrangement  of  the 
rooms,  and  with  the  furniture  and  pictures  that  had 
formerly  been  in  them.  I  added,  of  course,  that  on  the 
last  occasion  when  I  had  seen  my  friend,  he  had  spoken 
of  his  new  housekeeper  in  terms  of  the  highest  praise, 
and  assured  me  again  in  his  letter  that  I  should  find 
her  good-mannered,  hospitable,  and  obliging. 

The  upshot  was  that,  though  Martha  Timofeievna 
was  at  first  categorical  in  her  refusal  to  admit  anyone 
to  the  flat,  she  ultimately  agreed  to  do  so  if  I  could  show 


154        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

her  the  actual  letter  written  by  "Monsieur  Dukes," 
requesting  permission  for  his  friend  to  be  admitted. 

I  told  her  I  would  bring  it  to  her  that  very  afternoon, 
and,  highly  satisfied  with  the  result  of  the  interview, 
I  retired  at  once  to  the  nearest  convenient  place,  which 
happened  to  be  the  Journalist's,  to  write  it. 

"Dear  Sasha,"  I  wrote  in  Russian,  using  the  familiar 
name  for  Alexander  (my  Christian  name  according  to 
my  new  papers),  "I  can  scarcely  hope  you  will  ever 

receive  this,  yet  on  the  chance  that  you  may etc.," 

— and  I  proceeded  to  give  a  good  deal  of  imaginary 
family  news.  Toward  the  end  I  said,  "By  the  way,  when 
you  are   in    Petrograd,  please  go  to  my  flat  and  see 

Martha  Timofeievna etc.,"  and  I  gave  instructions 

as  to  what  "Sasha"  was  to  do,  and  permission  to  take 
anything  he  needed.  "I  write  in  Russian,"  I  concluded, 
"so  that  in  case  of  necessity  you  may  show  this  letter  to 
M.  T.  She  is  a  good  woman  and  will  do  everything  for 
you.  Give  her  my  hearty  greetings  and  tell  her  I  hope 
to  return  at  the  first  opportunity.  Write  if  ever  you 
can.     Good-bye.     Yours  ever,  Pavlusha." 

I  put  the  letter  in  an  envelope,  addressed  it  to 
"Sasha  Markovitch,"  sealed  it  up,  tore  it  open  again, 
crumpled  it,  and  put  it  in  my  pocket. 

The  same  afternoon  I  presented  myself  once  more 
at  my  back  door. 

Martha  Timofeievna's  suspicions  had  evidently 
already  been  considerably  allayed,  for  she  smiled  amia- 
bly even  before  perusing  the  letter  I  put  into  her  hand, 
and  at  once  admitted  me  as  far  as  the  kitchen.  Here 
she  laboriously  read  the  letter  through  (being  from  the 
Baltic  provinces  she  spoke  Russian  badly  and  read  with 
difficulty),  and,  paying  numerous  compliments  to  the 


MELNIKOFF  155 

author,  who  she  hoped  would  soon  return  because  she 
didn't  know  what  she  was  going  to  do  about  the  flat 
or  how  long  she  would  be  able  to  keep  on  living  there, 
she  led  me  into  the  familiar  rooms. 

Everything  was  in  a  state  of  confusion.  Many  of 
the  pictures  were  torn  down,  furniture  was  smashed, 
and  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  of  the  dining  room  lay  a 
heap  of  junk,  consisting  of  books,  papers,  pictures, 
furniture,  and  torn  clothing.  In  broken  Russian  Mar- 
tha Timofeievna  told  me  how  first  there  had  been  a 
search,  and  when  she  had  said  that  an  Englishman  had 
lived  there  the  Reds  had  prodded  and  torn  everything 
with  their  bayonets.  Then  a  family  of  working  people 
had  taken  possession,  fortunately,  however,  not  expell- 
ing her  from  her  room.  But  the  flat  had  not  been  to 
their  liking  and,  deserting  it  soon  after,  they  took  a  good 
many  things  with  them  and  left  everything  else  upside 
down. 

Between  them,  the  Reds  and  the  uninvited  occupants 
had  left  very  little  that  could  be  of  use  to  me.  I  found 
no  boots  or  overclothing,  but  among  the  litter  I  dis- 
covered some  underclothing  of  which  I  was  glad.  I 
also  found  an  old  student  hat,  which  was  exactly  what 
I  wanted  for  my  postal  uniform.  I  put  it  in  my  pocket 
and,  tying  the  other  things  in  a  parcel,  said  I  would  send 
Varia  for  them  next  day. 

While  I  was  disentangling  with  my  housekeeper's 
aid  the  heap  of  stuff  on  the  floor  I  came  upon  my  own 
photograph  taken  two  or  three  years  before.  For  the 
first  time  I  fully  and  clearly  realized  how  complete  was 
my  present  disguise,  how  absolutely  different  I  now 
appeared  in  a  beard,  long  hair,  and  glasses.  I  passed 
the  photo  to  Martha  Timofeievna. 


156        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

"  That  is  a  good  likeness,"  I  said.  "  He  hasn't  altered 
one  bit." 

"Yes,"  she  replied.  "Was  he  not  a  nice  man?  It  is 
dreadful  that  he  had  to  go  away.  I  wonder  where  he  is 
now  and  what  he  is  doing?" 

"I  wonder,"  I  repeated,  diving  again  into  the  muck 
on  the  floor.  To  save  my  life  I  could  not  have  looked 
at  Martha  Timofeievna  at  that  moment  and  kept  a 
straight  face. 

Failing  to  obtain  an  overcoat  from  the  remnant  of 
my  belongings,  I  searched  the  markets  and  from  a 
destitute  gentleman  of  aristocratic  mien  procured  a 
shabby  black  coat  with  a  worn  velvet  collar.  In  this 
and  my  student  hat  I  was  the  "complete  postal  official." 
I  adopted  this  costume  for  daytime  purposes,  but  before 
every  visit  to  Zorinsky  I  went  to  "No.  5,"  where  I  kept 
what  few  belongings  I  possessed,  and  changed,  visiting 
Zorinsky  only  in  the  attire  in  which  he  was  accustomed 
to  see  me. 

As  the  end  of  January  approached  my  suspicion  that 
Zorinsky  would  not  secure  Melnikoff's  release  grew. 
Once  or  twice  he  had  not  even  mentioned  the  subject, 
talking  energetically  in  his  usual  vivacious  manner 
about  other  things.  He  was  as  entertaining  as  ever, 
and  invariably  imparted  interesting  political  news, 
but  if  I  broached  the  subject  of  Melnikoff  he  shelved  it 
at  once. 

So  I  resolved,  in  spite  of  risks,  to  see  if  I  could  obtain 
through  the  Policeman  information  as  to  Melnikoff's 
case.  I  had  not  seen  the  Policeman  since  I  had  returned 
from  Finland,  so  I  told  him  I  had  been  delayed  in  that 
country  and  had  only  just  come  back.  Without  telling 
him  who  Melnikoff  wr  ",  I  imparted  to  him  the  data  re- 


MELNIKOFF  157 

garding  the  latter's  arrest,  and  what  I  had  learned 
"through  accidental  channels"  as  to  his  imprisonment. 
I  did  not  let  him  know  my  concern,  lest  he  should  be 
inclined  purposely  to  give  a  favourable  report,  but 
charged  him  to  be  strict  and  accurate  in  his  investiga- 
tion, and,  in  the  event  of  failing  to  learn  anything, 
not  to  fear  to  admit  it. 

About  a  week  later,  when  I  'phoned  to  him,  he  said 
"he  had  received  an  interesting  letter  on  family  mat- 
ters." It  was  with  trepidation  that  I  hurried  to  his 
house,  struggling  to  conceal  my  eager  anticipation  as  I 
mounted  the  stairs,  followed  by  the  gaze  of  the  leering 
Chinaman. 

The  little  Policeman  held  a  thin  strip  of  paper  in  his 
hand. 

"Dmitri  Dmitrievitch  Melnikoff,"  he  read.  "Real 
name  Nicholas  Nicholaievitch  N ?" 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"He  was  shot  between  the  15th  and  20th  of  January," 
said  the  Policeman. 


CHAPTER  VI 

STEPANOVNA 

Meanwhile,  as  time  progressed,  I  made  new  acquaint- 
ances at  whose  houses  I  occasionally  put  up  for  a  night. 
Over  most  of  them  I  pass  in  silence.  I  accepted  their 
hospitality  as  a  Russian  emigrant  who  was  being 
searched  for  by  the  Bolsheviks,  a  circumstance  which  in 
itself  was  a  recommendation.  But  if  I  felt  I  could  trust 
people  I  did  not  hesitate  to  reveal  my  nationality,  my 
reception  then  being  more  cordial  still.  I  often  re- 
flected with  satisfaction  that  my  mode  of  living  resem- 
bled that  of  many  revolutionists,  not  only  during  the 
reign  of  Tsarism,  but  also  under  the  present  regime. 
People  of  every  shade  of  opinion  from  Monarchist  to 
Socialist-Revolutionary  dodged  and  evaded  the  police- 
agents  of  the  Extraordinary  Commission,  endeavouring 
either  to  flee  from  the  country  or  to  settle  down  unob- 
served under  new  names  in  new  positions. 

One  of  my  incidental  hosts  whom  I  particularly  re- 
member, a  friend  of  the  Journalist  and  a  school  in- 
spector by  profession,  was  full  of  enterprise  and  enthu- 
siasm for  a  scheme  he  propounded  for  including  garden- 
ing and  such  things  in  the  regular  school  curriculum  of 
his  circuit.  His  plans  were  still  regarded  with  some 
mistrust  by  those  in  power,  for  his  political  prejudices 
were  known,  but  he  none  the  less  had  hope  that  the 
Communists  would  allow  him  to  introduce  his  innova- 
tions, which  I  believe  he  eventually  did  successfully. 

158 


STEPANOVNA  159 

The  Journalist  was  promoted  to  the  position  of 
dieloproizvoditel  of  his  department,  a  post  giving  him  a 
negligible  rise  of  salary,  but  in  which  practically  all  offi- 
cial papers  passed  through  his  hands.  At  his  own  initia- 
tive he  used  to  abstract  papers  he  thought  would  be  of 
interest  to  me,  restoring  them  before  their  absence  could 
be  discovered.  Some  of  the  things  he  showed  me  were 
illuminating,  others  useless.  But  good,  bad,  or  indiffer- 
ent, he  always  produced  them  with  a  sly  look  and  with 
his  finger  at  the  side  of  his  nose,  as  if  the  information 
they  contained  must  be  of  the  utmost  consequence. 

I  persuaded  him  to  sell  off  some  of  his  books  as  a 
subsidiary  means  of  subsistence,  and  we  called  a  Jew  in, 
who  haggled  long  and  hard.  The  Journalist  was  loth 
to  do  this,  but  I  refused  ever  to  give  him  more  than  the 
cost  of  his  fuel,  over  which  also  I  exerted  a  control  of 
Bolshevist  severity.  He  had  no  conception  whatever 
of  relative  values,  and  attached  though  he  was  to  me 
I  thought  I  sometimes  detected  in  his  eye  a  look  which 
said  with  unspeakable  contempt:  "You  miserly  Eng- 
lishman ! " 

I  was  unfortunate  in  losing  Maria  as  a  regular  com- 
panion and  friend.  She  returned  to  Marsh's  country 
farm  in  the  hope  of  saving  at  least  something  from 
destruction,  and  visited  town  but  rarely.  In  her 
place  there  came  to  live  at  the  empty  flat  "No.  5"  the 
younger  of  the  two  stable  boys,  a  dull  but  decent  youth 
who  had  not  joined  the  looters.  This  boy  did  his 
best  no  doubt  to  keep  things  in  order,  but  tidiness  and 
cleanliness  were  not  his  peculiar  weaknesses.  He  could 
not  understand  why  glasses  or  spoons  should  be  washed, 
or  why  even  in  an  untenanted  flat  tables  and  chairs 
should    occasionally    be    dusted.      Once,    the    tea   he 


160        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

had  made  me  tasting  unusually  acrid,  I  went  into  the 
kitchen  to  investigate  the  tea-pot.  On  removing  the 
lid  I  found  it  to  be  half  full  of  dead  beetles. 

Stepanovna  continued  to  be  a  good  friend.  Dmitri's 
regiment  was  removed  to  a  town  in  the  interior,  and 
Dmitri,  reluctant  though  he  was  to  leave  the  capital, 
docilely  followed,  influenced  largely  by  the  new  regi- 
mental commissar  who  had  succeeded  in  making  him- 
self popular — a  somewhat  rare  achievement  amongst 
commissars.  Even  Stepanovna  admitted  this  unusual 
circumstance,  allowing  that  the  commissar  was  a 
poriadotchny  tcheloviek,  i.  e.,  a  decent  person,  "although 
he  was  a  Communist,"  and  she  thus  acquiesced  in 
Dmitri's  departure. 

It  was  in  Stepanovna's  company  that  I  first  witnessed 
the  extraordinary  spectacle  of  an  armed  raid  by  the 
Bolshevist  authorities  on  a  public  market.  Running 
across  her  in  the  busy  Sienaya  Square  one  morning  I 
found  she  had  been  purchasing  meat,  which  was  a  rare 
luxury.  She  had  an  old  black  shawl  over  her  head  and 
carried  a  bast  basket  on  her  arm. 

"  Where  did  you  get  the  meat?  "  I  asked.  " I  will  buy 
some  too." 

"Don't,"  she  said,  urgently.  "In  the  crowd  they  are 
whispering  that  there  is  going  to  be  a  raid." 

"What  sort  of  a  raid?" 

"On  the  meat,  I  suppose.  Yesterday  and  to-day  the 
peasants  have  been  bringing  it  in  and  I  have  got  a  little. 
I  don't  want  to  lose  it.  They  sav  the  Reds  are  com- 
ing." 

Free-trading  being  clearly  opposed  to  the  principles 
of  Communism,  it  was  officially  forbidden  and  de- 
nounced as  "speculation."     But  no  amount  of  restric- 


STEPANOVNA  161 

tion  could  suppress  it,  and  the  peasants  brought  food 
in  to  the  hungry  townspeople  despite  all  obstacles  and 
sold  it  at  their  own  prices.  The  only  remedy  the 
authorities  had  for  this  "capitalist  evil"  was  armed 
force,  and  even  that  was  ineffective. 

The  meat  was  being  sold  by  the  peasants  in  a  big 
glass-covered  shed.  One  of  these  sheds  was  burnt  down 
in  1919,  and  the  only  object  that  remained  intact  was  an 
ikon  in  the  corner.  Thousands  came  to  see  the  ikon 
that  had  been  "miraculously"  preserved,  but  it  was 
hastily  taken  away  by  the  authorities.  The  ikon  had 
apparently  been  overlooked,  for  it  was  the  practice  of 
the  Bolsheviks  to  remove  all  religious  symbols  from 
public  places. 

I  moved  toward  the  building  to  make  my  purchase, 
but  Stepanovna  tugged  me  by  the  arm. 

"Don't  be  mad,"  she  exclaimed.  "Don't  you  real- 
ize, if  there  is  a  raid  they  will  arrest  everybody?" 

She  pulled  me  down  to  speak  in  my  ear. 

"And  what  about  your  .  .  I  am  sure  .  .  . 
your  papers     .     .     .     are     .     .     ." 

"Of  course  they  are,"  I  laughed.  "But  you  don't 
expect  a  clown  of  a  Red  guard  to  see  the  difference,  do 

you?" 

I  made  up  my  mind  to  get  rid  of  Stepanovna  and 
come  back  later  for  some  meat,  but  all  at  once  a  com- 
motion arose  in  the  crowd  over  the  way  and  people  be- 
gan running  out  of  the  shed.  Round  the  corner,  from 
the  side  of  the  Ekaterina  Canal,  appeared  a  band  of 
soldiers  in  sheepskin  caps  and  brown-gray  tunics,  with 
fixed  bayonets.  The  exits  from  the  building  were 
quickly  blocked.  Fugitives  fled  in  all  directions,  the 
women  shrieking  and  hugging  their  baskets  and  bundles, 


162        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

and  looking  back  as  they  ran  to  see  if  they  were  pur- 
sued. 

Stepanovna  and  I  stood  on  a  doorstep  at  the  corner 
of  the  Zabalkansky  Prospect,  where  we  could  see  well, 
and  whence,  if  need  be,  we  could  also  make  good  our 
escape. 

The  market  place  was  transformed  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye.  A  moment  before  it  had  been  bristling  with 
life  and  the  crowded  street-cars  had  stopped  to  let  their 
passengers  scramble  laboriously  out.  But  now  the 
whole  square  was  suddenly  as  still  as  death,  and,  but 
for  a  few  onlookers  who  watched  the  scene  from  a  dis- 
tance, the  roadway  was  deserted. 

From  fifty  to  sixty  soldiers  filed  slowly  into  the  shed 
and  a  few  others,  with  rifles  ready,  hurried  now  and 
again  round  the  outside  of  the  building.  A  fiendish  din 
arose  with  the  entry  of  the  soldiers.  The  shrieking, 
howling,  hooing,  cursing,  and  moaning  sounded  as  if 
hell  itself  had  been  let  loose!  It  was  an  uncanny  con- 
trast— the  silent  square,  and  the  ghastly  noise  within 
the  shed! 

Stepanovna  muttered  something,  but  the  only  word 
I  caught  was  "devils."  Sacks  and  bundles  were  being 
dragged  out  by  the  guards  and  hoisted  on  to  trucks  and 
lorries.  At  one  door  people  were  let  out  one  by  one 
after  examination  of  their  clothes  and  papers.  The 
women  were  set  at  liberty,  but  the  men,  except  the  old 
and  quite  young  boys,  were  marched  off  to  the  nearest 
Commissariat. 

"What  does  it  all  mean?"  I  exclaimed,  as  we  moved 
off  along  the  Zabalkansky  Prospect. 

"Mean,  Ivan  Pavlovitch?  Don't  you  see?  'Let's 
grab!'     'Down  with  free  trading!'     'Away  with  specu- 


STEPANOVNA  163 

lators!'  That  is  what  they  say.  'Speculation'  they 
call  it.  I  am  a  'speculator,'  too,"  she  chuckled.  "Do 
you  think  I  ever  got  any  work  from  the  labour  bureau, 
where  I  have  been  registered  these  three  months?  Or 
Varia,  either,  though  we  both  want  jobs.  The  money 
Ivan  Sergeievitch  left  us  is  running  out,  but  we  must 
live  somehow,  mustn't  we?" 

Stepanovna  lowered  her  voice. 

"So  we  have  sold  a  sideboard.  .  .  .  Yes,"  she 
chuckled,  "we  sold  it  to  some  people  downstairs. 
'Speculators,'  too,  I  expect.  They  came  up  early  in  the 
morning  and  took  it  away  quietly,  and  our  house  com- 
mittee never  heard  anything  about  it!" 

Stepanovna  laughed  outright.  She  thought  it  a  huge 
joke. 

For  all  your  furniture,  you  see,  was  supposed  to  be 
registered  and  belonged  not  to  yourself  but  to  the  com- 
munity. Superfluous  furniture  was  to  be  confiscated  in 
favour  of  the  working  man,  but  generally  went  to  decor- 
ate the  rooms  of  members  of  the  committee  or  groups  of 
Communists  in  whose  charge  the  houses  were  placed. 
Sailor  Communists  seemed  to  make  the  largest  demands. 
"Good  morning,"  they  would  say  on  entering  your 
home.  "Allow  us  please  to  look  around  and  see  how 
much  furniture  you  have."  Some  things,  they  would 
tell  you,  were  required  by  the  house  committee.  Or  a 
new  'worker'  had  taken  rooms  downstairs.  He  was  a 
'party  man,'  that  is,  he  belonged  to  the  Communist 
party  and  was  therefore  entitled  to  preference,  and  he 
required  a  bed,  a  couch,  and  some  easy  chairs. 

It  was  useless  to  argue,  as  some  people  did  and  got 
themselves  into  trouble  by  telling  the  "comrades" 
what  they  thought  of  them.     The  wise  and  thoughtful 


164        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

submitted,  remembering  that  while  many  of  these  men 
were  out  just  to  pocket  as  much  as  they  could,  there 
were  others  who  really  believed  they  were  thus  distribut- 
ing property  in  the  interests  of  equality  and  fraternity. 

But  the  wily  and  clever  would  exclaim;  "My  dear 
comrades,  I  am  delighted!  Your  comrade  is  a  'party 
man'?  That  is  most  interesting,  for  I  am  intending  to 
sign  on  myself.  Only  yesterday  I  put  some  furniture 
by  for  you.  As  for  this  couch  you  ask  for,  it  is  really  in- 
dispensable, but  in  another  room  there  is  a  settee  you 
can  have.  And  that  picture,  of  course,  I  would  willingly 
give  you,  only  I  assure  you  it  is  an  heirloom.  Besides, 
it  is  a  very  bad  painting,  an  artist  told  me  so  last  week. 
Would  you  not  rather  have  this  one,  which  he  said  was 
really  good?" 

And  you  showed  them  any  rotten  old  thing,  prefer- 
ably something  big.  Then  you  would  offer  them  tea 
and  apologize  for  giving  them  nothing  but  crusts  with 
it.  You  explained  you  wished  to  be  an  "idealist" 
Communist,  and  your  scruples  would  not  permit  you 
to  purchase  delicacies  from  "speculators." 

Your  visitors  were  not  likely  to  linger  long  over  your 
crusts,  but  if  you  succeeded  in  impressing  them  with 
your  devotion  to  the  Soviet  regime  they  would  be  less 
inclined  to  molest  a  promising  candidate  for  comrade- 
ship. 

But  Stepanovna  possessed  no  such  subtlety.  She 
was,  on  the  contrary,  unreasonably  outspoken  and  I 
wondered  that  she  did  not  get  into  difficulties. 

Stepanovna  and  Varia  often  used  to  go  to  the  opera, 
and  when  they  came  home  they  would  discuss  intelli- 
gently and  with  enthusiasm  the  merits  and  demerits  of 
respective  singers. 


STEPANOVNA  165 

"I  did  not  like  the  man  who  sang  Lensky  to-night," 
one  of  them  would  say.  "  He  baa-ed  like  a  sheep  and  his 
acting  was  poor." 

Or,  "So-and-so's  voice  is  really  almost  as  good  as 
Shaliapin's,  except  in  the  lowest  notes,  but  of  course 
Shaliapin's  acting  is  much  more  powerful." 

"Stepanovna,"  I  once  said,  "used  you  to  go  to  the 
opera  before  the  revolution?" 

"Why  yes,"  she  replied,  "we  used  to  go  to  the 
Narodny  Dom."  The  Narodny  Dom  was  a  big  theatre 
built  for  the  people  by  the  Tsar. 

"But  to  the  state  theatres,  the  Marinsky  opera  or 
ballet?" 

"No,  that  was  difficult." 

"Well,  then,  why  do  you  abuse  the  Bolsheviks  who 
make  it  easy  for  you  to  go  to  what  used  to  be  the  Im- 
perial Theatres  and  see  the  very  best  plays  and  actors?" 

Stepanovna  was  stooping  over  the  samovar.  She 
raised  herself  and  looked  at  me,  considering  my  question. 

"H'm,  yes,"  she  admitted,  "I  enjoy  it,  it  is  true. 
But  who  is  the  theatre  full  of?  Only  school  children 
and  our  'comrades'  Communists.  The  school  children 
ought  to  be  doing  home-lessons  and  our  'comrades' 
ought  to  be  hanging  on  the  gallows.  Varia  and  I  can 
enjoy  the  theatre  because  we  just  have  enough  money 
to  buy  food  in  the  markets.  But  go  and  ask  those  who 
stand  in  queues  all  day  and  all  night  for  half  a  pound  of 
bread  or  a  dozen  logs  of  firewood !  How  much  do  they 
enjoy  the  cheap  theatres?     I  wonder,  ah?" 

So  I  said  no  more.  Stepanovna  had  very  decided 
notions  of  things.  If  she  had  been  an  Englishwoman 
before  the  war  she  would  have  been  a  militant  suffragist. 

It  was  at  the  beginning  of  February  that  I  saw  Stepa- 


166        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

novna  for  the  last  time.  My  acquaintance  with  her 
ceased  abruptly,  as  with  other  people  under  similar  cir- 
cumstances. Varia,  it  transpired,  got  into  trouble  through 
trying  to  communicate  with  Ivan  Sergeievitch  in  Finland. 

Before  going  to  Stepanovna's  flat  I  always  'phoned 
and  asked,  "Is  your  father  any  better?" — which  meant, 
May  I  come  and  stay  the  night?  To  which  she  or  Varia 
would  reply,  "Quite  well,  thank  you,  and  he  would  like 
you  to  go  and  see  him  when  you  have  time." 

On  the  last  occasion  when  I  called  up,  Stepanovna 
did  not  at  once  answer.  Then  in  a  voice  full  of  inde- 
cision she  stammered,  "I  don't  know — I  think — I  will 
ask — please  wait  a  moment."  I  waited  and  could  hear 
she  had  not  left  the  telephone.  At  last  she  continued 
tremblingly,  "No,  he  is  no  better,  he  is  very  bad  indeed 
— dying."  There  was  a  pause.  "I  am  going  to  see 
him,"  she  went  on,  stammering  all  the  time,  "at  eleven 
o'clock  to-morrow  morning,  do — do  you  understand?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  will  go  too  and  wait  for  you." 

Wondering  if  we  had  understood  each  other,  I 
stationed  myself  at  the  corner  of  the  street  a  little 
before  eleven,  and  watched  from  a  distance  the  en- 
trance to  Stepanovna's  house.  One  glance,  when 
she  came  out,  satisfied  her  I  was  there.  Walking 
off  in  the  other  direction,  she  followed  Kazanskaya 
Street,  only  once  looking  round  to  make  sure  I  was 
behind,  and,  reaching  the  Kazan  Cathedral,  entered 
it.     I  found  her  in  a  dark  corner  to  the  right. 

"Varia  is  arrested,"  she  said,  in  great  distress. 
"You  must  come  to  our  flat  no  more,  Ivan  Pavlovitch. 
A  messenger  came  from  Viborg  the  day  before  yester- 
day and  asked  Varia,  if  she  could,  to  get  out  to  Finland. 
They  went  together  to  the  Finland  Station  and  got 


STEPANOVNA  167 

on  the  train.  There  they  met  another  man  who  was 
to  help  them  get  over  the  frontier.  He  was  arrested 
on  the  train  and  the  other  two  with  him." 

"Is  there  any  serious  charge?"  I  asked.  "Simply 
running  away  is  no  grave  offence." 

"They  say  the  two  men  will  be  shot,"  she  replied. 
"But  Varia  only  had  some  things  she  was  taking  to 
Ivan  Sergeievitch's  wife." 

I  tried  to  reassure  her,  saying  I  would  endeavour 
to  discover  how  Varia's  case  stood,  and  would  find 
some  means  of  communication. 

"I  am  expecting  a  search,"  she  went  on,  "but  of 
course  I  have  made  preparations.  Maybe  we  shall 
meet  again  some  day,  Ivan  Pavlovitch.     I  hope  so." 

I  felt  very  sorry  for  poor  Stepanovna  in  her  trouble. 
She  was  a  fine  type  of  woman  in  her  way,  though 
her  views  on  things  were  often  crude.  But  it  must 
be  remembered  that  she  was  only  a  peasant.  As  I  was 
crossing  the  threshold  of  the  cathedral,  something 
moved  me  to  turn  back  for  a  moment,  and  I  saw 
Stepanovna  shuffle  up  to  the  altar  and  fall  on  her 
knees.     Then  I  came  away. 

I  was  resolved  to  get  the  Policeman  on  the  job  at 
once  to  find  out  the  circumstances  of  Varia's  case, 
which  I  felt  sure  could  not  be  serious.  But  I  was 
not  destined  to  make  this  investigation.  I  never 
saw  either  Varia  or  Stepanovna  again,  nor  was  it 
possible  for  me  to  discover  what  ultimately  became 
of  them.  Tossed  hither  and  thither  by  the  caprice 
of  circumstance,  I  found  myself  shortly  after  sud- 
denly placed  in  a  novel  and  unexpected  situation,  of 
which  and  its  results,  if  the  reader  have  patience 
to  read  a  little  further,  he  will  learn. 


CHAPTER  MI 


FINLAND 


Staraya  Derevnya,  which  means  "the  Old  Village," 
is  a  remote  suburb  of  Petrograd,  situated  at  the  mouth 
of  the  most  northerly  branch  of  the  River  Neva,  over- 
looking the  Gulf  of  Finland.  It  is  a  poor  and  shabby 
locality,  consisting  of  second-rate  summer  villas  and 
a  few  small  timber-yards  and  logmen's  huts.  In 
winter  when  the  gulf  is  frozen  it  is  the  bleakest  of 
bleak  places,  swept  by  winds  carrying  the  snow  in 
blizzard-like  clouds  across  the  dreary  desert  of  ice. 
You  cannot  tell  then  where  land  ends  and  sea  begins, 
for  the  flats,  the  shores,  the  marshes,  and  the  sea  lie 
hidden  under  a  common  blanket  of  soft  and  sand-like 
snowdrifts.  In  olden  times  I  loved  to  don  my  skis 
and  glide  gently  from  the  world  into  that  vast  expanse 
of  frozen  water,  and  there,  miles  out,  lie  down  and 
listen  to   the  silence. 

A  few  days  after  I  had  parted  from  Stepanovna  in 
the  Kazan  Cathedral,  I  sat  in  one  of  the  smallest  and 
remotest  huts  of  Staraya  Derevnya.  It  was  eleven 
o'clock  of  a  dark  and  windless  night.  Except  for  the 
champing  of  a  horse  outside,  the  silence  was  broken 
only  by  the  grunting  and  snoring  of  a  Finnish  con- 
trabandist lying  at  full  length  on  the  dirty  couch. 
Once,  when  the  horse  neighed,  the  Finn  rose  hurriedly 
with  a  curse.  Lifting  the  latch  cautiously,  he  stole 
out  and  led  the  animal  round  to  the  seaward  side  of 

168 


FINLAND  169 

the  cottage,  where  it  would  be  less  audible  from  the 
road.  Having  recently  smuggled  a  sleigh-load  of 
butter  into  the  city,  he  was  now  returning  to  Finland — 
with  me. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  we  drove  out,  and,  con- 
ditions being  good,  the  drive  over  the  sea  to  a  point 
well  along  the  Finnish  coast,  a  distance  of  some  forty- 
odd  miles,  was  to  take  us  between  four  and  five  hours. 
The  sledge  was  of  the  type  known  as  drovny,  a  wooden 
one,  broad  and  low,  filled  with  hay.  The  drovny, 
used  mostly  for  farm  haulage,  is  my  favourite  kind 
of  sledge,  and  nestling  comfortably  at  full  length  under 
the  hay  I  thought  of  long  night-drives  in  the  interior 
in  days  gone  by,  when  some  one  used  to  ride  ahead 
on  horseback  with  a  torch  to  keep  away  the  wolves. 

In  a  moment  we  were  out,  flying  at  breakneck  speed 
across  the  clear  ice,  windswept  after  recent  storms. 
The  half  inch  of  frozen  snow  just  gave  grip  to  the 
horse's  hoofs.  Twice,  suddenly  bumping  into  snow 
ridges,  we  capsized  completely.  When  we  got  going 
again  the  runners  sang  just  like  a  saw-mill.  The 
driver  noticed  this  too,  and  was  alive  to  the  danger  of 
being  heard  from  shore  a  couple  of  miles  away;  but 
his  sturdy  pony,  exhilarated  by  the  keen  frosty  air,  was 
hard  to  restrain. 

Some  miles  out  of  Petrograd  there  lies  on  an  island 
in  the  Finnish  Gulf  the  famous  fortress  of  Cronstadt, 
one  of  the  most  impregnable  in  the  world.  Search- 
lights from  the  fortress  played  from  time  to  time 
across  the  belt  of  ice,  separating  the  fortress  from 
the  northern  shore.  The  passage  through  this  narrow 
belt  was  the  crucial  point  in  our  journey.  Once  past 
Cronstadt  we  should  be  in  Finnish  waters  and  safe. 


170        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

To  avoid  danger  from  the  searchlights,  the  Finn 
drove  within  a  mile  of  the  mainland,  the  runners 
hissing  and  singing  like  saws.  As  we  entered  the 
narrows  a  dazzling  beam  of  light  swept  the  horizon 
from  the  fortress,  catching  us  momentarily  in  its 
track;  but  we  were  sufficiently  near  the  shore  not  to 
appear  as  a  black  speck  adrift  on  the  ice. 

Too  near,  perhaps?  The  dark  line  of  the  woods 
seemed  but  a  stone's  throw  away!  You  could  almost 
see  the  individual  trees.  Hell!  what  a  noise  our 
sledge-runners   made! 

"Can't  you  keep  the  horse  back  a  bit,  man?" 

"Yes,  but  this  is  the  spot  we've  got  to  drive  past 
quickly ! " 

We  were  crossing  the  line  of  Lissy  Nos,  a  jutting 
point  on  the  coast  marking  the  narrowest  part  of  the 
strait.  Again  a  beam  of  light  shot  out  from  the 
fortress,  and  the  wooden  pier  and  huts  of  Lissy  Nos 
were  lit  as  by  a  flash  of  lightning.  But  we  had  passed 
the  point  already.  It  was  rapidly  receding  into  the 
darkness  as  we  regained  the  open  sea. 

Sitting  upright  on  the  heap  of  hay,  I  kept  my  eyes 
riveted  on  the  receding  promontory.  We  were  nearly 
a  mile  away  now,  and  you  could  no  longer  distinguish 
objects  clearly.  But  my  eyes  were  still  riveted  on  the 
rocky  promontory. 

Were  those  rocks — moving?  I  tried  to  pierce  the 
darkness,  my  eyes  rooted  to  the  black  point! 

Rocks?     Trees?     Or — or 

I  sprang  to  my  feet  and  shook  the  Finn  by  the 
shoulders  with  all  my  force. 

"Damn  it,  man!  Drive  like  hell — we're  being 
pursued!" 


FINLAND  171 

Riding  out  from  Lissy  Nos  were  a  group  of  horse- 
men, five  or  six  in  number.  My  driver  gave  a  moan, 
lashed  his  horse,  the  sleigh  leapt  forward,  and  the 
chase  began  in  earnest. 

"Ten  thousand  marks  if  we  escape!"  I  yelled  in 
the  Finn's  ear. 

For  a  time  we  kept  a  good  lead  but  in  the  darkness 
it  was  impossible  to  see  whether  we  were  gaining  or 
losing.  My  driver  was  making  low  moaning  cries,  he 
appeared  to  be  pulling  hard  on  the  reins,  and  the  sleigh 
jerked  so  that  I  could  scarcely  stand. 

Then  I  saw  that  the  pursuers  were  gaining — and 
gaining  rapidly!  The  moving  dots  grew  into  figures 
galloping  at  full  speed.  Suddenly  there  was  a  flash 
and  a  crack,  then  another,  and  another.  They  were 
firing  with  carbines,  against  which  a  pistol  was  useless. 
I  threatened  the  driver  with  my  revolver  if  he  did 
not  pull  ahead,  but  dropped  like  a  stone  into  the  hay 
as  a  bullet  whizzed  close  to  my  ear. 

At  that  moment  the  sledge  suddenly  swung  round. 
The  driver  had  clearly  had  difficulty  with  his  reins, 
which  appeared  to  get  caught  in  the  shaft,  and  before 
I  realized  what  was  happening  the  horse  fell,  the 
sledge  whirled  round  and  came  to  a  sudden  stop. 

At  such  moments  one  has  to  think  rapidly.  What 
would  the  pursuing  Red  guards  go  for  first,  a  fugitive? 
Not  if  there  was  possible  loot.  And  what  more  likely 
than  that  the  sledge  contained  loot? 

Eel-like,  I  slithered  over  the  side  and  made  in  the 
direction  of  the  shore.  Progress  was  difficult  for 
there  were  big  patches  of  ice,  coal-black  in  colour,  which 
were  completely  windswept  and  as  slippery  as  glass. 
Stumbling  along,  I  drew  from  my  pocket  a  packet, 


172        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

wrapped  in  dark  brown  paper,  containing  maps  and 
documents  which  were  sufficient,  if  discovered,  to 
assure  my  being  shot  without  further  ado,  and  held 
it  ready  to  hurl  away  across  the  ice. 

If  seized,  I  would  plead  smuggling.  It  seemed 
impossible  that  I  should  escape!  Looking  backward 
I  saw  the  group  round  the  sledge.  The  Reds,  dis- 
mounted, were  examining  the  driver;  in  a  moment  they 
would  renew  the  pursuit,  and  running  over  the  ice  I 
should  be  spotted  at  once. 

Then  an  idea  occurred. 

The  ice,  where  completely  windswept,  formed  great 
patches  as  black  as  ink.  My  clothes  were  dark.  I  ran 
into  the  middle  of  a  big  black  patch  and  looked  at  my 
boots.     I  could  not  see  them! 

To  get  to  the  shore  was  impossible  anyway,  so  this 
was  the  only  chance.  Jerking  the  packet  a  few  yards 
from  me  where  I  might  easily  find  it,  I  dropped  flat 
on  the  black  ice  and  lay  motionless,  praying  that  I 
should  be  invisible. 

It  was  not  long  before  I  heard  the  sound  of  hoofs 
and  voices  approaching.  The  search  for  me  had  begun. 
But  the  riders  avoided  the  slippery  windswept  places 
as  studiously  as  I  had  done  in  running,  and,  thank 
heaven!  just  there  much  of  the  ice  was  windswept. 
As  they  rode  round  and  about,  I  felt  that  someone 
was  bound  to  ride  just  over  me!  Yet  they  didn't, 
after  all. 

It  seemed  hours  and  days  of  night  and  darkness 
before  the  riders  retreated  to  the  sledge  and  rode  off 
with  it,  returning  whence  they  had  come.  But  time  is 
measured  not  by  degrees  of  hope  or  despair,  but  by 
fleeting  seconds   and   minutes,   and   by   my   luminous 


FINLAND  173 

watch  I  detected  that  it  was  only  half  past  one.  Pro- 
saic half  past  one! 

Was  the  sombre  expanse  of  frozen  sea  really  deserted? 
Cronstadt  loomed  dimly  on  the  horizon,  the  dark  line 
of  woods  lay  behind  me,  and  all  was  still  as  death — 
except  for  the  sea  below,  groaning  and  gurgling  as  if 
the  great  ice-burden  were  too  heavy  to  bear. 

Slowly  and  imperceptibly  I  rose,  first  on  all  fours, 
then  kneeling,  and  finally  standing  upright.  The 
riders  and  the  sledge  were  gone,  and  I  was  alone. 
Only  the  stars  twinkled,  as  much  as  to  say:  "It's  all 
over!  'Twas  a  narrow  squeak,  wasn't  it?  but  a  miss  is 
as  good  as  a  mile!" 

It  must  have  been  a  weird,  bedraggled  figure  that 
stumbled,  seven  or  eight  hours  later,  up  the  steep 
bank  of  the  Finnish  shore.  That  long  walk  across 
the  ice  was  one  of  the  hardest  I  ever  had  to  make, 
slipping  and  falling  at  almost  every  step  until  I  got 
used  to  the  surface.  On  reaching  light,  snow-covered 
regions,  however,  I  walked  rapidly  and  made  good 
progress.  Once  while  I  was  resting  I  heard  footsteps 
approaching  straight  in  my  direction.  Crawling  into 
the  middle  of  another  black  patch,  I  repeated  the 
manoeuvre  of  an  hour  or  two  earlier,  and  lay  still. 
A  man,  walking  hurriedly  toward  Cronstadt  from  the 
direction  of  Finland,  passed  within  half  a  dozen  paces 
without  seeing  me. 

Shortly  after  daylight,  utterly  exhausted,  I  clam- 
bered up  the  steep  shore  into  the  woods.  Until  I 
saw  a  Finnish  sign-board  I  was  still  uncertain  as 
to  whether  I  had  passed  the  frontier  in  the  night  or 
not.  But  convincing  myself  that  I  had,  though 
doubtful  of  my  precise  whereabouts,  I  sought  a  quiet 


174        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

spot  behind  a  shed,  threw  myself  on  to  the  soft  snow 
and  fell  into  a  doze. 

It  was  here  that  I  was  discovered  by  a  couple  of  Fin- 
nish patrols,  who  promptly  arrested  me  and  marched 
me  off  to  the  nearest  coastguard  station.  No  amount 
of  protestation  availed  to  convince  them  I  was  not  a 
Bolshevist  spy.  The  assertion  that  I  was  an  English- 
man only  seemed  to  intensify  their  suspicions,  for 
my  appearance  completely  belied  the  statement. 
Seizing  all  my  money  and  papers,  they  locked  me  up 
in  a  cell,  but  removed  me  during  the  day  to  the  office 
of  the  Commandant  at  Terijoki,  some  miles  distant. 

The  Commandant,  whom  I  had  seen  on  the  occasion 
of  my  last  visit  to  Finland,  would,  I  expected,  release 
me  at  once.  But  I  found  a  condition  of  things  totally 
different  f ro  u  that  obtaining  six  weeks  earlier.  A 
new  commandant  had  been  appointed,  who  was 
unpersuaded  even  by  a  telephone  conversation  con- 
ducted in  his  presence  with  the  British  representatives 
at  the  Finnish  capital.  The  most  he  would  do  was  to 
give  me  a  temporary  pass  saying  I  was  a  Russian 
travelling  to  Helsingfors:  with  the  result  that  I  was 
re-arrested  on  the  train  and  again  held  in  detention 
at  the  head  police  office  in  the  capital  until  energetic 
representations  by  the  British  Charge  d'Affaires  secured 
my  release,  with  profuse  apologies  from  the  Finnish 
authorities  for   the   not    unnatural    misunderstanding. 

The  reader  will,  I  hope,  have  become  sufficiently 
interested  in  my  story  to  inquire  what  were  the  cir- 
cumstances which  led  to  my  taking  this  sudden  journey 
to  Finland.  They  were  various.  Were  I  writing  a 
tale  of  fiction,  and  could  allow  free  rein  to  whatso- 
ever  imagination  I   possess,  I  might  be   tempted  at 


FINLAND  175 

this  point  to  draw  my  story  to  a  startling  climax 
by  revealing  Zorinsky  in  the  light  of  a  grossly  mis- 
understood and  unappreciated  friend  and  saviour, 
while  Stepanovna,  the  Journalist,  or  the  Doctor  would 
unexpectedly  turn  out  to  be  treacherous  wolves  in 
sheep's  clothing,  plotting  diabolically  to  ensnare  me 
in  the  toils  of  the  Extraordinary  Commission.  As 
it  is,  however,  fettered  by  the  necessity  of  recording 
dull  and  often  obvious  events  as  they  occurred,  it 
will  be  no  surprise  to  the  reader  to  learn  that  the 
wolf,  in  a  pretty  bad  imitation  of  sheep's  clothing 
(good  enough,  however,  to  deceive  me),  turned  out 
actually  to  be  Zorinsky. 

It  was  the  day  after  I  had  parted  from  Stepanovna 
that  the  Doctor  told  me  that  Melnikoff's  friend  Shura, 
through  sources  at  his  disposal,  had  been  investigating 
the  personality  of  this  interesting  character,  and 
had  established  it  as  an  indisputable  fact  that  Zorinsky 
was  in  close  touch  with  people  known  to  be  in  the 
employ  of  No.  2  Gorohovaya.  This  information, 
though  unconfirmed  and  in  itself  proving  nothing  (was 
not  the  Policeman  also  in  close  touch  with  people 
in  the  employ  of  No.  2  Gorohovaya?),  yet  following 
on  the  news  of  Melnikoff's  death  and  Zorinsky's 
general  duplicity,  resolved  me  to  seek  the  first  oppor- 
tunity to  revisit  Finland  and  consult  Ivan  Sergeievitch. 

There  were  other  motives,  also.  I  had  communi- 
cated across  the  frontier  by  means  of  couriers,  one  of 
whom  was  found  me  by  the  Doctor,  and  another  by 
one  of  the  persons  who  play  no  part  in  my  story,  but 
whom  I  met  at  the  Journalist's.  One  of  these  couriers 
was  an  N.  C.  O.  of  the  old  army,  a  student  of  law, 
and  a  personal  friend  of  the  Doctor:  the  other  a  Rus- 


176        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

sian  officer  whose  known  counter-revolutionary  pro- 
clivities precluded  the  possibility  of  his  obtaining 
any  post  in  Soviet  Russia  at  this  time.  Both  crossed 
the  frontier  secretly  and  without  mishap,  but  only  one 
returned,  bearing  a  cipher  message  which  was  all 
but  indecipherable.  Sending  him  off  again,  but 
getting  no  reply,  I  was  in  ignorance  as  to  whether  he 
had  arrived  or  not,  and,  left  without  news,  it  was 
becoming  imperative  that  I  repeat  my  visit  to  the 
Finnish  capital. 

Furthermore,  with  passage  of  time  I  felt  my  po- 
sition, in  spite  of  friends,  becoming  not  more  secure 
but  rapidly  less  so.  What  might  suddenly  arise  out 
of  my  connections  with  Zorinsky,  for  instance,  no 
one  could  foresee,  and  I  determined  that  the  best 
thing  would  be  to  disappear  completely  for  a  short 
period  and,  returning,  to  start  all  over  afresh. 

I  learned  of  the  ice-route  to  Finland  from  my  courier, 
who  came  back  that  way,  and  who  returned  to  Finland 
the  following  night  on  the  same  sledge.  Discreet 
inquiries  at  the  logman's  hut  produced  the  information 
that  the  courier's  smuggler,  granted  that  he  had  safely 
reached  Finland, was  not  due  back  for  some  time,  but 
another  one  had  arrived  and  would  take  anyone  who 
was  willing  to  pay.  The  sum  demanded,  two  thousand 
marks,  when  converted  into  foreign  exchange  was 
about  twenty  pounds.  But  the  Finn  thinks  of  a 
mark  as  a  shilling. 

As  ill-luck  would  have  it,  I  found  on  arrival  in 
Finland  that  Ivan  Sergeievitch  was  in  the  Baltic 
States  and  no  one  knew  when  he  would  return.  But 
I  saw  his  wife,  who  had  sent  the  indiscreet  message  to 
Petrograd  leading  to  Varia's  arrest.     She  was  morti- 


FINLAND  177 

fied  when  I  broke  this  news  to  her,  but  was  unable 
to  throw  any  light  on  Zorinsky.  I  also  met  several 
other  Russian  officers,  none,  however,  who  had  known 
Melnikoff,  and  I  thus  got  no  further  information. 

The  Doctor,  of  course,  had  denounced  Zorinsky  as 
a  'provocateur,  but  there  was  as  yet  little  evidence 
for  the  charge.  Zorinsky  might  be  an  extortionist 
without  being  a  provocateur.  Wild  charges  are 
brought  against  anybody  and  everybody  connected 
with  Sovdepia  on  the  slightest  suspicion,  and  I  myself 
have  been  charged,  on  the  one  hand,  by  the  Bolshe- 
viks with  being  a  rabid  monarchist,  and,  on  the  other, 
by  reactionaries  with  being  a  ''subtle"  Bolshevik. 
However,  my  aversion  to  Zorinsky  had  become  so  in- 
tense that  I  resolved  that  under  no  pretext  or  con- 
dition would  I  have  anything  more  to  do  with  him. 

My  time  in  Helsingfors  was  occupied  mostly  with 
endeavours  to  obtain  official  assurances  that  any  cour- 
iers I  dispatched  from  Russia  would  not  be  seized 
or  shot  by  the  Finns,  and  that  reasonable  assistance 
should  be  given  them  in  crossing  the  frontier  in  either 
direction.  The  Finnish  Foreign  and  War  Offices 
were  willing  enough  to  cooperate,  but  appeared  to 
have  but  little  sway  over  their  own  frontier  authori- 
ties. The  last  word  belonged  to  the  new  Commandant 
at  Terijoki,  a  man  of  German  origin,  who  defied  the 
Government  whenever  instructions  ran  counter  to  his 
open  German  sympathies.  Being  in  league  with 
German  Intelligence  organizations  in  Russia,  he  was 
naturally  disinclined  to  do  anything  that  would  assist 
the  Allies,  and  it  was  only  when  his  insubordination 
passed  all  limits  and  he  was  at  last  dismissed  by  the 
Finnish  Government,  that  facilities  could  be  granted 


178        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

which  made  the  operation  of  a  secret  courier  service 
across  the  frontier  in  any  degree  feasible. 

The  story  of  intrigue  and  counter-intrigue  amongst 
Finns,  Germans,  Russians,  Bolsheviks,  and  the  Allies 
at  this  time,  both  in  the  Finnish  capital  and  along  the 
Russian  frontier,  would  be  a  fascinating  one  in  itself, 
but  that  is  not  my  province.  On  the  occasion  of  my 
brief  visits  to  Finland  my  prime  object  was  not  to 
become  involved,  and  this  was  the  main  reason  why, 
depressing  though  the  prospect  of  returning  to  Petro- 
grad  was  under  existing  circumstances,  I  nevertheless 
cut  short  my  stay  in  Finland  and  prepared  to  return 
the  moment  I  learned  positively  that  the  German 
frontier  commandant  was  to  be  removed. 

Earnestly  as  I  had  striven  to  remain  incognito,  my 
unavoidable  participation  in  the  negotiations  for  arrang- 
ing a  courier-service  had  drawn  me  into  unfortunate 
prominence.  The  German  Commandant,  still  at  his 
post,  appeared  to  regard  me  as  his  very  particular 
foe,  and  learning  of  1113'  intention  to  return  to  Russia 
by  sea  he  issued  orders  that  the  strictest  watch  should 
be  kept  on  the  coast  and  any  sledge  or  persons  issuing 
on  to  the  ice  be  fired  upon.  Thus,  although  I  had  a 
Government  permit  to  cross  the  frontier,  the  smuggler 
who  was  to  carry  me  positively  refused  to  venture  on 
the  journey,  while  all  patrols  had  orders  to  afford 
me  no  facilities  whatsoever. 

But  I  evaded  the  Commandant,  and  very  simply. 
At  the  other  extremity  of  the  Russo-Finnish  frontier, 
close  to  Lake  Ladoga,  there  is  a  small  village  named 
Rautta,  lying  four  or  five  miles  from  the  frontier 
line.  This  place  had  formerly  also  been  a  rallying 
point  for  smugglers  and  refugees,  but  in  view  of  its 


FINLAND  179 

remoteness  and  the  difficulties  of  forest  travel  it  was 
very  inaccessible  in  mid-winter  from  the  Russian 
side.  At  the  Commandant's  headquarters  it  was 
never  suspected  that  I  would  attempt  to  start  from 
this  remote  spot.  But  protesting,  much  to  the  Com- 
mandant's delight,  that  I  would  return  and  compel 
him  to  submit  to  Government  orders,  I  travelled  by  a 
very  circuitous  route  to  the  village  of  Rautta,  where 
I  was  completely  unknown,  and  where  I  relied  on  finding 
some  peasant  or  other  who  would  conduct  me  to  the 
border.  Once  arriving  at  the  frontier  I  was  content 
to  be  left  to  my  own  resources. 

Luck  was  with  me.  It  was  in  the  later  stages  of 
the  tedious  journey  that  I  was  accosted  in  the  train 
by  a  young  Finnish  lieutenant  bound  for  the  same 
place.  Russians  being  in  ill-favour  in  Finland,  I 
always  travelled  as  an  Englishman  in  that  country, 
whatever  I  may  have  looked  like.  At  this  time  I  did 
not  look  so  bad,  attired  in  an  old  green  overcoat  I 
had  bought  at  Helsingfors.  Noticing  that  I  was 
reading  an  English  paper,  the  lieutenant  addressed  me 
in  English  with  some  trifling  request,  and  we  fell  into 
conversation.  I  was  able  to  do  him  a  slight  service 
through  a  note  I  gave  him  to  an  acquaintance  in 
Helsingfors,  and  when  I  further  presented  him  with 
all  my  newspapers  and  a  couple  of  English  books 
for  which  I  had  no  further  use,  he  was  more  than 
delighted.  Finding  him  so  well-disposed  I  asked  him 
what  he  was  going  to  do  at  Rautta,  to  which  he 
replied  that  he  was  about  to  take  up  his  duties  as  chief 
of  the  garrison  of  the  village,  numbering  some  fifteen 
or  twenty  men.  At  this  I  whipped  out  my  Finnish 
Government  permit  without  further  ado  and  appealed 


180        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

to  the  lieutenant  to  afford  me,  as  the  document  said, 
"every  assistance  in  crossing  the  Russian  frontier." 

He  was  not  a  little  nonplussed  at  this  unexpected 
request.  But  realizing  that  a  pass  such  as  mine  could 
only  have  been  issued  by  the  Finnish  Ministry  of  War 
on  business  of  first-class  importance  he  agreed  to  do 
what  he  could.  I  soon  saw  that  he  was  much  con- 
cerned to  do  his  utmost.  Within  a  couple  of  hours 
after  our  arrival  at  Rautta  I  was  assured  not  only 
of  a  safe  conduct  by  night  to  the  frontier,  but  also 
of  a  guide,  who  was  instructed  to  take  me  to  a  certain 
Russian  village  about  twenty  miles  beyond. 

Nothing  could  be  more  truly  proletarian  than 
Finnish  administration  in  regions  where  neither 
German  nor  ancien-regime  Russian  influence  has 
penetrated.  It  is  the  fundamentally  democratic  char- 
acter of  the  Finnish  people  that  has  enabled  them 
since  the  time  of  which  I  speak  to  master  in  large 
measure  their  would-be  foreign  counsellors  and  con- 
trollers and  build  up  a  model  constitution.  The  elder 
of  the  village  of  Rautta,  who  was  directed  by  my 
friend  the  lieutenant  to  show  me  hospitality  and 
procure  me  a  guide,  was  a  rough  peasant,  literate  and 
intelligent,  living  with  his  wife  in  a  single  large  room 
in  which  I  was  entertained.  His  assistants  were  men 
of  the  same  type,  while  the  guide  was  a  young  fellow 
of  about  twenty,  a  native  of  the  village,  who  had  had 
a  good  elementary  education  at  Viborg.  In  the 
hands  of  people  of  this  sort  I  always  felt  myself  secure. 
Their  crude  common  sense — the  strongest  defence 
against  nonsensical  Red  propaganda — made  them  as 
a  class  trustier  friends  than  a  spoilt  intelligentsia  or 
the  scheming  intrigants  of  the  militarist  caste. 


FINLAND  181 

My  guide  produced  half  a  dozen  pairs  of  skis,  all 
of  which  were  too  short,  as  I  require  a  nine-  or  ten-foot 
ski,  but  I  took  the  longest  pair.  About  eleven  o'clock 
our  skis  were  strapped  to  a  drovny  sledge,  and  with  a 
kindly  send-off  by  the  elder  and  his  wife,  we  drove 
rapidly  to  a  lonely  hut,  the  last  habitation  on  the 
Finnish  side  of  the  frontier.  The  proprietor  was  roused 
and  regaled  us  with  tea,  while  a  scout,  who  chanced 
to  come  in  a  few  moments  after  our  arrival,  advised 
my  guide  as  to  the  latest  known  movements  of  Red 
patrols.  Our  peasant  host  possessed  no  candles  or 
oil  in  this  solitary  abode,  and  we  sat  in  the  flickering 
light  of  long  burning  twigs,  specially  cut  to  preserve 
their  shaky  flare  as  long  as  possible. 

About  midnight  we  mounted  the  skis  and  set  out 
on  our  journey,  striking  off  the  track  straight  into  the 
forest.  My  companion  was  lightly  clad,  but  I  retained 
my  overcoat,  which  I  should  need  badly  later,  while 
round  my  waist  I  tied  a  little  parcel  containing  a  pair 
of  shoes  I  had  bought  for  Maria  in  Helsingfors. 

By  the  roundabout  way  we  were  going  it  would  be 
some  twenty-five  miles  to  the  village  that  was  our 
destination.  For  four  years  I  had  not  run  on  skis, 
and  though  ski-running  is  like  swimming  in  that  once 
you  learn  you  never  forget,  yet  you  can  get  out  of 
practice.  Moreover,  the  skis  I  had  were  too  short, 
and  any  ski-runner  will  tell  you  it  is  no  joke  to  run 
on  short  skis  a  zig-zag  route  across  uneven  forest 
ground — and  in  the  dark! 

We  started  in  an  easterly  direction,  moving  parallel 
to  the  border-line.  I  soon  more  or  less  adapted  my 
steps  to  the  narrow  seven-foot  ski  and  managed  to  keep 
the  guide's  moderate  pace.     We  stopped  frequently  to 


182        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

listen  for  suspicious  sounds,  but  all  that  greeted  our 
ears  was  the  mystic  and  beautiful  winter  silence  of 
a  snow-laden  northern  forest.  The  temperature  was 
twenty  degrees  below  zero,  with  not  a  breath  of 
wind,  and  the  pines  and  firs  bearing  their  luxuriant 
white  burdens  looked  as  if  a  magic  fairy-wand  had 
lulled  them  into  perpetual  sleep.  Some  people  might 
have  "seen  things"  in  this  dark  forest  domain,  but 
peering  into  the  dim  recesses  of  the  woods  I  felt  all 
sound  and  motion  discordant,  and  loved  our  halts 
just  to  listen,  listen,  listen.  My  guide  was  taciturn, 
if  we  spoke  it  was  in  whispers,  we  moved  noiselessly 
but  for  the  gentle  swish  of  our  skis,  which  scarcely 
broke  the  stillness,  and  the  stars  that  danced  above 
the  tree-tops  smiled  down  upon  us  approvingly. 

After  travelling  a  little  over  an  hour  the  Finn  suddenly 
halted,  raising  his  hand.  For  some  minutes  we  stood 
motionless.  Then,  leaving  his  skis,  he  walked  cau- 
tiously back  to  me  and  pointing  at  a  group  of  low 
bushes  a  hundred  yards  away,  visible  through  a  narrow 
aisle  in  the  forest,  he  whispered:  "You  see  those 
farthest  shrubs?  They  are  in  Russia.  We  are  about 
to  cross  the  line,  so  follow  me  closely." 

Moving  into  the  thickets,  we  advanced  slowly  under 
their  cover  until  we  were  within  a  few  yards  of  the 
spot  indicated.  I  then  saw  that  before  us  there  lay, 
crosswise  through  the  forest,  a  narrow  clearance  some 
ten  yards  wide,  resembling  a  long  avenue.  This  was 
the  Russian  borderline,  and  we  stood  at  the  extreme 
edge  of  the  Finnish  forest.  My  guide  motioned  to 
me  to  sidle  up  alongside  him. 

"It  is  to  those  bushes  we  must  cross,"  he  whispered 
so  low  as  to  be  scarcely  audible.     "The  undergrowth 


FINLAND  183 

everywhere  else  is  impassable.  We  will  watch  the 
shrubbery  a  moment.  The  question  is:  is  there  any  one 
behind  it?     Look  hard." 

Weird  phenomenon ! — but  a  moment  ago  it  seemed 
that  motion  in  the  forest  was  inconceivable.  Yet 
now,  with  nerves  tense  from  anticipation,  all  the 
trees  and  all  the  bushes  seemed  to  stir  and  glide. 
But  oh!  so  slyly,  so  noiselessly,  so  imperceptibly! 
Every  shrub  knew  just  when  you  were  looking  at  it, 
and  as  long  as  you  stared  straight,  it  kept  still;  but 
the  instant  you  shifted  your  gaze,  a  bough  swung — 
ever  so  little! — a  trunk  swayed,  a  bush  shrank,  a 
thicket  shivered,  it  was  as  if  behind  everything  were 
something,  agitating,  toying,  to  taunt  you  with  de- 
ceits ! 

But  it  was  not  really  so.  The  forest  was  still  with 
a  deathlike  stillness.  The  dark  trees  like  sentinels 
stood  marshalled  in  sombre  array  on  either  side  of 
the  avenue.  Around  us,  above,  and  below,  all  was 
silence — the  mystic,  beautiful  winter  silence  of  the 
sleeping  northern  forest. 

Like  a  fish,  my  companion  darted  suddenly  from 
our  hiding  place,  bending  low,  and  in  two  strides  had 
crossed  the  open  space  and  vanished  in  the  shrubbery. 
I  followed,  stealing  one  rapid  glance  up  and  down  as 
I  crossed  the  line,  to  see  nothing  but  two  dark  walls 
of  trees  on  either  hand  separated  by  the  gray  carpet 
of  snow.  Another  stride,  and  I,  too,  was  in  Russia, 
buried  in  the  thick  shrubbery. 

I  found  my  guide  sitting  in  the  snow,  adjusting 
his  ski-straps. 

"If  we  come  upon  nobody  in  the  next  quarter-mile," 
he  whispered,  "we  are  all  right  till  daybreak." 


184        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

"But  our  ski-tracks?"  I  queried;  "may  they  not  be 
followed?" 

"Nobody  will  follow  the  way  we  are  going." 

The  next  quarter-mile  lay  along  a  rough  track  skirt- 
ing the  Russian  side  of  the  frontier.  Progress  was 
difficult  because  the  undergrowth  was  thick  and  we 
had  to  stoop  beneath  overhanging  branches.  Every 
twenty  paces  or  so  we  stopped  to  listen — but  only  to 
the  silence. 

At  last  we  came  out  on  the  borders  of  what  seemed 
like  a  great  lake.  My  companion  explained  that  it 
was  a  morass  and  that  we  should  ski  straight  across 
it,  due  south,  making  the  best  speed  we  might.  Travel- 
ling now  was  like  finding  a  level  path  after  hard  rocky 
climbing.  My  guide  sailed  away  at  so  round  a  pace 
that  although  I  used  his  tracks  I  could  not  keep  up. 
By  the  time  I  had  crossed  the  open  morass  he  had 
already  long  disappeared  in  the  woods.  I  noticed 
that  although  he  had  said  no  one  would  follow  us, 
he  did  not  like  the  open  places. 

Again  we  plunged  into  the  forest.  The  ground 
here  began  to  undulate  and  progress  in  and  out  amongst 
the  short  firs  was  wearisome.  I  began  to  get  so  tired 
that  I  longed  to  stretch  myself  out  at  full  length  on 
the  snow.  But  we  had  to  make  our  village  by  day- 
break and  my  guide  would  not  rest. 

It  was  after  we  had  crossed  another  great  morass 
and  had  been  picking  our  way  through  pathless  forest 
for  about  four  hours,  that  I  saw  by  the  frequency  with 
which  my  companion  halted  to  consider  the  direction, 
and  the  hesitation  with  which  he  chose  our  path,  that 
he  had  lost  his  way.  When  I  asked  him  he  frankly 
admitted  it,  making  no  effort  also  to  conceal  his  anx- 


FINLAND  185 

iety.  There  was  nothing  to  do,  however,  but  to  keep 
straight  ahead,  due  south  by  the  pole  star. 

The  first  streaks  of  dawn  stole  gently  over  the  sky. 
Coming  out  on  to  an  open  track,  my  guide  thought  he 
recognized  it,  and  we  followed  it  in  spite  of  the  danger 
of  running  into  an  early  patrol.  In  a  few  moments 
we  struck  off  along  a  side  track  in  an  easterly  direction. 
We  should  soon  reach  our  destination  now,  said  the 
Finn — about  a  mile  more. 

I  moved  so  slowly  that  my  companion  repeatedly 
got  long  distances  ahead.  We  travelled  a  mile,  but 
still  no  sign  of  village  or  open  country.  At  length 
the  Finn  disappeared  completely,  and  I  struggled 
forward  along  his  tracks. 

The  gray  dawn  spread  and  brightened,  and  it  was 
quite  light,  though  the  sun  had  not  yet  risen,  when 
at  last  I  drew  near  the  outskirts  of  the  forest.  Sit- 
ting on  the  bank  of  a  small  running  stream  sat  my 
guide,  reproaching  me  when  I  joined  him  for  my  tardi- 
ness. Across  a  large  meadow  outside  the  forest  he 
pointed  to  a  group  of  cottages  on  the  side  of  a  hill 
to  the  right. 

"The  Reds  live  there,"  he  said.  "They  will  be  out 
about  eight  o'clock.  We  have  come  over  a  mile  too 
far  inland  from  Lake  Ladoga:  but  follow  my  tracks 
and  we  shall  soon  be  there." 

He  rose  and  mounted  his  skis.  I  wondered  how 
he  proposed  to  cross  the  stream.  Taking  a  short 
run,  he  prodded  his  sticks  deftly  into  the  near  bank 
as  he  quitted  it,  and  lifting  himself  with  all  his  force 
over  the  brook,  glided  easily  on  to  the  snow  on  the  far 
side.  Moving  rapidly  across  the  meadow,  he  disap- 
peared in  the  distant  bushes. 


186        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

But  in  springing  he  dislodged  a  considerable  portion 
of  the  bank  of  snow,  thus  widening  the  intervening 
space.  I  was  bigger  and  weightier  than  he,  and  more 
heavily  clad,  and  my  endeavour  to  imitate  his  per- 
formance on  short  skis  met  with  a  disastrous  end. 
Failing  to  clear  the  brook,  my  skis,  instead  of  sliding 
on  to  the  opposite  snow,  plunged  into  the  bank,  and  I 
found  myself  sprawling  in  the  water!  It  was  a  marvel 
that  neither  ski  broke.  I  picked  them  up  and  throwing 
them  on  to  the  level,  prepared  to  scramble  out  of  the 
stream. 

The  ten  minutes  that  ensued  were  amongst  the 
silliest  in  sensation  and  most  helpless  I  ever  experienced. 
Nothing  would  seem  easier  than  to  clamber  up  a  bank 
not  so  high  as  one's  shoulder.  But  every  grab  did 
nothing  but  bring  down  an  avalanche  of  snow  on  top 
of  me!  There  was  no  foothold,  and  it  was  only  when 
I  had  torn  the  deep  snow  right  away  that  I  was  able 
to  drag  myself  out  with  the  aid  of  neighbouring  bushes. 

Safely  on  shore  I  looked  myself  over  despondently. 
From  the  waist  downward  I  was  one  solid  mass  of  ice. 
The  flags  of  ice  on  my  old  green  overcoat  flapped  heav- 
ily against  the  ice-pillars  encasing  my  top-boots. 
^Yith  considerable  labour  and  difficulty  I  scraped  soles 
and  skis  sufficiently  to  make  it  possible  to  stand  on 
them,  and  once  again  crawled  slowly  forward. 

I  do  not  know  how  I  managed  to  traverse  the  re- 
maining three  miles  to  the  village  whither  my  guide 
had  preceded  me.  It  should  have  been  the  hardest 
bit  of  all,  for  I  was  in  the  last  stages  of  fatigue.  Yet 
it  does  not  seem  to  have  been  so  now.  I  think,  to 
tell  the  truth,  I  completely  gave  up  the  game,  con- 
vinced my  black  figure  creeping  up  the  white  hillside 


FINLAND  187 

must  inevitably  attract  attention,  and  I  mechanically 
trudged  forward  till  I  should  hear  a  shot  or  a  cry  to 
halt.  Or,  perhaps,  even  in  this  plight,  and  careless  of 
what  befell  me,  I  was  fascinated  by  the  glory  of  a 
wondrous  winter  sunrise!  I  remember  how  the  sun 
peeped  venturously  over  the  horizon,  throwing  a  magic 
rose-coloured  mantle  upon  the  hills.  First  the  summits 
were  touched,  the  pink  flush  crept  gently  down  the 
slopes,  turning  the  shadows  palest  blue,  and  when  at 
last  the  sun  climbed  triumphant  into  the  heaven, 
the  whole  world  laughed.     And  with  it,  I! 

The  cottages  of  the  Reds  were  left  far  behind.  I 
had  crossed  more  than  one  hill  and  valley,  and  passed 
more  than  one  peasant  who  eyed  me  oddly,  before  I 
found  myself  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill  on  whose  crest 
was  perched  the  village  I  was  seeking.  I  knew  my 
journey  was  over  at  last,  because  my  guide's  tracks 
ceased  at  the  top.  He  had  dismounted  to  walk  along 
the  rough  roadway.  But  which  cottage  had  he  en- 
tered? 

I  resolved  to  beg  admission  to  one  of  the  huts  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  village.  They  were  all  alike,  low 
wooden  and  mud  buildings  with  protruding  porch, 
two  tiny  square  windows  in  the  half  where  the  family 
lived,  but  none  in  the  other  half,  which  formed  the 
barn  or  cattle-shed.  The  peasants  are  kindly  folk, 
I  mused,  or  used  to  be,  and  there  are  few  Bolsheviks 
amongst  them.  So  I  approached  the  nearest  cottage, 
propped  up  my  skis  against  the  wall,  timidly  knocked 
at  the  door,  and  entered. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A   VILLAGE    "BOURGEOIS-CAPITALIST" 

The  room  in  which  I  found  myself  was  a  spacious 
one.  On  the  right  stood  a  big  white  stove,  always  the 
most  prominent  object  in  a  Russian  peasant  dwelling, 
occupying  nearly  a  quarter  of  the  room.  Beyond  the 
stove  in  the  far  corner  was  a  bedstead  on  which  an 
old  woman  lay.  The  floor  was  strewn  with  several 
rough  straw  mattresses.  Two  strapping  boys,  a 
little  lass  of  ten,  and  two  girls  of  eighteen  or  nineteen 
had  just  dressed,  and  one  of  the  latter  was  doing  her 
hair  in  front  of  a  piece  of  broken  mirror. 

In  the  other  far  corner  stood  a  rectangular  wooden 
table,  with  an  oil  lamp  hanging  over  it.  The  little 
glass  closet  of  ikons  behind  the  table,  in  what  is  called 
"beautiful  corner"  because  it  shelters  the  holy  pic- 
tures, showed  the  inmates  to  be  Russians,  though  the 
district  is  inhabited  largely  by  men  of  Finnish  race. 
To  the  left  of  the  door  stood  an  empty  wooden  bed- 
stead, with  heaped-up  bedcovers  and  sheepskin  coats 
as  if  someone  had  lately  risen  from  it.  All  these  things, 
picturesque,  though  customary,  I  took  in  at  a  glance. 
But  I  was  interested  to  notice  an  old  harmonium,  an 
unusual  decoration  in  a  village  hut,  the  musical  ac- 
complishments of  the  peasant  generally  being  limited 
to  the  concertina,  the  guitar,  the  balalaika,  and  the 
voice,  in  all  of  which,  however,  he  is  adept. 

"Good  morning,"  I  said,  apologetically.     I  turned 

188 


A  VILLAGE  "BOURGEOIS-CAPITALIST"    189 

to  the  ikons  and  bowing,  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross. 
"May  I  sit  down  just  for  a  little  moment?  I  am 
very  tired." 

Everyone  was  silent,  doubtless  very  suspicious. 
The  little  girl  stared  at  me  with  wide-open  eyes.  I 
seated  myself  opposite  the  big  white  stove,  wonder- 
ing what  I  should  do  next. 

In  a  few  minutes  there  entered  a  rough  peasant  of 
about  fifty-five,  with  long  hair  streaked  with  gray, 
and  haggard,  glistening  eyes.  There  was  a  look  of 
austerity  in  his  wrinkled  face,  though  at  the  same 
time  it  was  not  unkind,  but  he  rarely  smiled.  He 
nodded  a  curt  good  morning  and  set  about  his  ablu- 
tions, paying  no  further  heed  to  me.  The  old  woman 
mentioned  that  I  had  come  in  to  rest. 

I  explained.  "I  set  out  from  the  nearest  station 
early  this  morning  with  a  companion,"  I  said,  "to  ski 
here.  We  are  looking  for  milk.  But  we  lost  our  way  in 
the  woods.  I  tumbled  into  a  stream.  My  companion 
is  somewhere  in  the  village  and  I  will  go  and  look 
for  him  later.  But  I  would  like  to  rest  a  little  first 
for  I  am  very  tired." 

The  old  peasant  listened  but  did  not  seem  interested. 
He  filled  his  mouth  with  water  from  a  jug,  bent  over 
an  empty  bucket,  and  letting  the  water  trickle  out  of 
his  mouth  into  the  cup  of  his  hands,  scrubbed  his 
face  and  neck.  I  suppose  it  was  warmer  this  way. 
When  he  had  finished  I  asked  if  I  might  have  some 
milk  to  drink,  and  at  a  sign  from  the  old  man  one  of 
the  boys  fetched  me  some  in  a  big  tin  mug. 

"It  is  hard  to  get  milk  nowadays,"  grunted  the  old 
peasant,  surlily,  and  went  on  with  his  work. 

The  boys  slipped  on  their  sheepskin  coats  and  left 


190        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

the  cottage,  while  the  girls  removed  the  mattresses 
and  set  the  samovar.  I  rejoiced  when  I  saw  the  old 
woman  preparing  to  light  the  stove.  My  legs  grad- 
ually thawed,  forming  pools  of  water  on  the  floor,  and 
one  of  the  boys,  when  he  came  in,  helped  me  pull 
my  boots  off.  But  this  was  a  painful  process,  for 
both  my  feet  were  partially  frozen. 

At  last  the  samovar  was  boiling  and  I  was  invited 
to  table  to  have  a  mug  of  tea.  It  was  not  real  tea 
and  tasted  nothing  like  it,  though  the  packet  was 
labelled  "Tea."  Black  bread  and  salt  herrings  made 
up  the  meal.     I  did  not  touch  the  herrings. 

"We  have  not  much  bread,"  said  the  old  man, 
significantly,  as  he  put  a  small  piece  in  front  of  me. 

While  we  were  at  table  my  companion  of  night 
adventure  came  in,  after  having  searched  for  me  all 
through  the  village.  I  wished  to  warn  him  to  be 
prudent  in  speech  and  repeat  the  same  tale  as  I  had 
told,  but  he  merely  motioned  reassuringly  with  his 
hand.  "You  need  fear  nothing  here,"  he  said,  smil- 
ing. 

It  appeared  that  he  knew  my  old  muzhik  well.  Tak- 
ing him  aside,  he  whispered  something  in  his  ear. 
What  was  he  saying?  The  old  man  turned  and  looked 
at  me  intensely  with  an  interest  he  had  not  shown 
before.  His  eyes  glistened  brightly,  as  if  with  un- 
expected satisfaction.     He  returned  to  where  I  sat. 

"Would  you  like  some  more  milk?"  he  asked,  kindly, 
and  fetched  it  for  me  himself. 

I  asked  who  played  the  harmonium.  With  amusing 
modesty  the  old  man  let  his  eyes  fall  and  said  nothing. 
But  the  little  girl,  pointing  her  finger  at  the  peasant, 
put    in    quickly     that     "  Diedushka     [grandpa]     did." 


A  VILLAGE  "BOURGEOIS-CAPITALIST"    191 

"I  like  music,"  I  said.  "Will  you  please  play 
something  afterwards?" 

Ah?  Why  was  everything  different  all  at  once — 
suspicions  evaporated,  fears  dissipated?  I  felt  the 
change  intuitively.  The  Finn  had  somehow  aroused 
the  crude  old  man's  interest  in  me  (had  he  told  him 
who  I  was?),  but  by  my  passing  question  I  had  touched 
his  tenderest  spot — music! 

So  Uncle  Egor  (as  I  called  him),  producing  an  old 
and  much  be-fingered  volume  of  German  hymn  tunes 
which  he  had  picked  up  in  a  market  at  Petrograd, 
seated  himself  nervously  and  with  touching  modesty 
at  the  old  harmonium.  His  thick,  horny  fingers, 
with  black  fingernails,  stumbled  clumsily  over  the 
keys,  playing  only  the  top  notes  coupled  in  octaves 
with  one  finger  of  his  left  hand.  He  blew  the  pedals 
as  if  he  were  beating  time,  and  while  he  played  his 
face  twitched  and  his  breath  caught.  You  could  see 
that  in  music  he  forgot  everything  else.  The  rotten 
old  harmonium  was  the  possession  he  prized  above  all 
else  in  the  world — in  fact,  for  him  it  was  not  of  this  world. 
Crude  old  peasant  as  he  was,  he  was  a  true  Russian. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  play  you  something?"  I 
asked  when  he  had  finished. 

Uncle  Egor  rose  awkwardly  from  the  harmonium, 
smiling  confusedly  when  I  complimented  him  on  his 
achievement.  I  sat  down  and  played  him  some  of 
his  hymns  and  a  few  other  simple  tunes.  When  I 
variegated  the  harmonies,  he  followed,  fascinated. 
He  leant  over  the  instrument,  his  eyes  rooted  on  mine. 
All  the  rough  harshness  had  gone  from  his  face  and 
the  shadow  of  a  faint  smile  flickered  round  his  lips. 
I  saw  in  his  eyes  a  great  depth  of  blue. 


192        RED  DUSK  AXD  THE  MORROW 

"Sit  down  again,  my  little  son,"  he  said  to  me  several 
times  later,  "and  play  me  more." 

At  mid-day  I  lay  down  on  Uncle  Egor's  bed  and  fell 
fast  asleep.  At  three  o'clock  they  roused  me  for 
dinner,  consisting  of  a  large  bowl  of  sour  cabbage 
soup,  which  we  all  ate  with  brown  polished  wooden 
spoons,  dipping  in  turn  into  the  bowl.  Uncle  Egor 
went  to  a  corner  of  the  room,  produced  from  a  sack  a 
huge  loaf,  and  cutting  off  a  big  square  chunk,  placed 
it  before  me. 

"Eat  as  much  bread  as  you  like,  my  son,"  he  said. 

He  told  me  all  his  woes — how  he  was  branded  as  a 
village  "fist,  bourgeois,  and  capitalist,"  because  he  had 
possessed  three  horses  and  five  cows;  how  four  cows 
and  two  horses  had  been  "requisitioned";  and  how 
half  his  land  had  been  taken  by  the  Committee  of 
the  Village  Poor  to  start  a  Commune  on. 

Committees  of  the  Village  Poor  were  bodies  from 
which  were  excluded  all  such  as  by  enterprise,  in- 
dustry, and  thrift,  had  raised  themselves  to  positions 
of  independence.  Staffed  by  the  lowest  elements  of 
stupid,  illiterate,  and  idle  peasants,  beggars  and 
tramps,  these  committees,  endowed  with  supreme 
power,  were  authorized  to  seize  the  property  of  the 
prosperous  and  divide  it  amongst  themselves,  a  portion 
going  to  the  Government. 

The  class  of  ''middle"  peasants,  that  is,  those  who 
were  half  way  to  prosperity,  incited  by  agitators, 
sided  at  first  with  the  poor  in  despoiling  the  rich, 
until  it  was  their  turn  to  be  despoiled,  when  they 
not  unnaturally  became  enemies  of  the  Bolshevist 
system.  The  imposition  of  a  war  tax,  however, 
finally   alienated   the   sympathies  of  the  entire  peas- 


A  VILLAGE  "BOURGEOIS-CAPITALIST"    193 

antry,  for  the  enriched  "poor"  would  not  pay  because 
they  were  technically  poor,  while  the  impoverished 
"rich"  could  not  pay  because  they  had  nothing  left. 
This  was  the  end  of  Communism  throughout  nine 
tenths  of  the  Russian  provinces,  and  it  occurred  when 
the  Bolsheviks  had  ruled  for  only  a  year. 

"Uncle  Egor,"  I  said,  "you  say  your  district  still 
has  a  Committee  of  the  Poor.  I  thought  the  com- 
mittees were  abolished.  There  was  a  decree  about 
it  last  December." 

"What  matters  it  what  they  write?"  he  exclaimed 
bitterly.  "Our  'comrades' — whatever  they  want  to 
do,  they  do.  They  held  a  Soviet  election  not  long 
ago  and  the  voters  were  ordered  to  put  in  the  Soviet 
all  the  men  from  the  Poor  Committee.  Now  they 
say  the  village  must  start  what  they  call  a  'Commune,' 
where  the  lazy  will  profit  by  the  labour  of  the  indus- 
trious. They  say  they  will  take  my  last  cow  for  the 
Commune.  But  they  will  not  let  me  join,  even  if  I 
wanted  to,  because  I  am  a  'fist.'     Ugh!" 

"When  they  held  the  election,"  I  asked,  "did  you 
vote?" 

Uncle  Egor  laughed.  "I?  How  should  they  let 
me  vote?  I  have  worked  all  my  life  to  make  myself 
independent.  I  once  had  nothing,  but  I  worked 
till  I  had  this  little  farm,  which  I  thought  would  be 
my  own.  Vasia  here  is  my  helper.  But  the  Soviet 
says  I  am  a  'fist'  and  so  I  have  no  vote!" 

"Who  works  in  the  Commune?"  I  asked. 

"Who  knows?"  he  replied.  "They  are  not  from 
these  parts.  They  thought  the  poor  peasants  would 
join  them,  because  the  poor  peasants  were  promised 
our  grain.     But   the   Committee   kept   the  grain   for 


194        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

themselves,  so  the  poor  peasants  got  nothing  and  are 
very  angry.  Ah,  my  little  son,"  he  cried,  bitterly, 
"do  you  know  what  Russia  wants?  Russia,  my  son, 
wants  a  Master — a  Master  who  will  restore  order, 
and  not  that  things  should  be  as  they  are  now,  with 
every  scoundrel  pretending  to  be  master.  That  is 
what  Russia  wants!" 

A  "master" — now  one  of  the  most  dangerous  words 
to  use  in  Russia,  because  it  is  the  most  natural! 

"Do  you  mean — a  'Tsar'?"  I  queried,  hesitatingly. 
But  Uncle  Egor  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He 
had  said  his  say. 

That  night  I  slept  on  the  rickety  wooden  bedstead 
side  by  side  with  Uncle  Egor  and  covered  with  the 
same  coverlets  and  quilts.  There  were  long  whisper- 
ings between  him  and  my  Finnish  guide  before  we 
retired,  for  early  in  the  morning  we  were  going  on  to 
Petrograd,  and  arrangements  had  to  be  made  to  drive 
to  the  nearest  station  by  such  devious  routes  as  not 
to  be  stopped  on  the  way.  I  was  nearly  asleep  when 
Uncle  Egor  clambered  in  by  my  side. 

It  was  long  before  dawn  when  we  rose  and  prepared 
to  set  out.  Uncle  Egor,  one  of  his  daughters,  the 
Finn,  and  I  made  up  the  party.  To  evade  patrols 
we  drove  by  side  ways  and  across  fields.  Uncle  Egor 
was  taking  his  daughter  to  try  to  smuggle  a  can  of 
milk  into  the  city.  What  he  himself  was  going  to  do 
I  don't  know.     He  wouldn't  tell  me. 

We  arrived  at  the  station  at  four  in  the  morning, 
and  here  I  parted  from  my  Finnish  guide  who  was 
returning  with  the  sledge.  He  positively  refused  to 
take  any  reward  for  the  service  he  had  rendered  me. 

Our  train,  the  only  train  of  the  day,  was  due  to 


A  VILLAGE  "BOURGEOIS-CAPITALIST"    195 

start  at  six,  and  the  station  and  platform  were  as 
busy  as  a  hive.  While  the  young  woman  got  tickets 
we  tried  to  find  places.  Every  coach  appeared  to  be 
packed,  and  the  platform  was  teeming  with  peasants 
with  sacks  on  their  backs  and  milk  cans  concealed 
in  bundles  in  their  hands.  Failing  to  get  into  a  box- 
car or  third-class  coach,  where  with  the  crush  it  would 
have  been  warmer,  we  tried  the  only  second-class 
car  on  the  train,  which  we  found  was  not  yet  full 
up.  Eventually  there  were  fourteen  people  in  the 
compartment  intended  for  six. 

At  length  the  train  rumbled  off.  Wedged  in  tight 
between  Uncle  Egorand  his  daughter,  I  sat  and  shivered. 
The  train  was  searched  by  Red  guards  on  the  journey, 
and  it  was  found  that  quite  half  the  supposed  cans 
of  "milk"  carried  by  the  peasants  were  packed  to  the 
brim  with  matches!  There  was  no  end  of  a  tumult  as 
the  guards  came  round.  Some  people  jumped  out  of  the 
windows  and  fled.  Others  hid  under  the  train  till  the 
compartment  had  been  searched  and  were  then  hauled 
in  again  through  the  windows  by  willing  hands  from 
inside. 

The  Bolshevist  Government,  you  see,  had  laid  a  spe- 
cial embargo  on  matches,  as  on  many  things  of  public 
use,  with  the  result  that  they  were  almost  unobtainable. 
So  that  when  you  did  get  them  from  "sackmen,"  as 
the  people  were  called  who  smuggled  provisions  into 
the  city  in  bags  and  sacks,  instead  of  paying  one  copeck 
per  box,  which  was  what  they  used  to  cost,  you  paid 
just  one  thousand  times  as  much — ten  roubles,  and  felt 
glad  at  that.  The  design,  of  course,  was  to  share  such 
necessities  equally  amongst  the  populace,  but  the 
soviet  departments  were  so  incompetent  and  corrupt, 


196        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

and  so  strangled  by  bureaucratic  administration,  that 
nothing,  or  very  little,  ever  got  distributed,  and  the 
persecuted  "sacknien"  were  hailed  as  benefactors. 

At  one  moment  during  the  journey  one  of  the  other 
peasants  bent  over  to  Uncle  Egor,  and,  glancing  at  me, 
asked  him  in  an  undertone,  "if  his  companion  had  come 
from  'over  there'" — which  meant  over  the  frontier;  in 
reply  to  which  Uncle  Egor  gave  him  a  tremendous  kick, 
which  explained  everything,  and  no  more  was  said. 

I  had  one  nasty  moment  when  the  train  was  searched. 
Despite  mishaps  I  still  clung  to  the  little  parcel  of  shoes 
for  Maria.  As  they  were  tied  round  my  waist  I  did  not 
lose  them  even  when  I  tumbled  into  the  stream.  Some 
people  got  up  when  the  searchers  came,  but  having  no 
milk-can  or  sack  I  moved  into  the  corner  and  sat  on  the 
parcel.  "When  the  soldier  told  me  to  shift  along  to  let 
him  see  what  was  in  the  corner  I  sat  the  shoes  along  with 
me,  so  that  both  places  looked  empty.  It  was  lucky 
he  did  not  make  me  get  up,  for  new  shoes  could  only 
have  come  from  "over  there." 

At  nine  we  reached  the  straggling  buildings  of  the 
Okhta  Station,  the  scene  of  my  flight  with  Mrs.  Marsh 
in  December,  and  there  I  saw  a  most  extraordinary  spec- 
tacle— the  attempted  prevention  of  sackmen  from  en- 
tering the  city. 

As  we  stood  pushing  in  the  corridor  waiting  for  the 
crowd  in  front  of  us  to  get  out,  I  heard  Uncle  Egor  and 
his  daughter  conversing  rapidly  in  low  tones. 

"I'll  make  a  dash  for  it,"  whispered  his  daughter. 

"  Good,"  he  replied  in  the  same  tone.  "  We'll  meet  at 
Nadya's." 

The  moment  we  stepped  on  to  the  platform  Uncle 
Egor's  daughter  vanished  under  the  railroad  coach  and 


A  VILLAGE   "BOURGEOIS-CAPITALIST"    197 

that  was  the  last  I  ever  saw  of  her.  At  each  end  of  the 
platform  stood  a  string  of  armed  guards,  waiting  for  the 
onslaught  of  passengers,  who  flew  in  all  directions  as 
they  surged  from  the  train.  How  shall  I  describe  the 
scene  of  unutterable  pandemonium  that  ensued!  The 
soldiers  dashed  at  the  fleeing  crowds,  brutally  seized 
single  individuals,  generally  women,  who  were  least  able 
to  defend  themselves,  and  tore  the  sacks  off  their  backs 
and  out  of  their  arms.  Shrill  cries,  shrieks,  and  howls 
rent  the  air.  Between  the  coaches  and  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  station  you  could  see  lucky  ones  who  had  escaped, 
gesticulating  frantically  to  unlucky  ones  who  were  still 
dodging  guards.  "This  way!  This  way!"  they  yelled 
wildly,  "Sophia!  Marusia!  Akulina!  Varvara!  Quick! 
Haste!" 

In  futile  efforts  to  subdue  the  mob  the  soldiers  dis- 
charged their  rifles  into  the  air,  only  increasing  the 
panic  and  intensifying  the  tumult.  Curses  and  execra- 
tions were  hurled  at  them  by  the  seething  mass  of  fugi- 
tives. One  woman  I  saw,  frothing  at  the  mouth,  with 
blood  streaming  down  her  cheek,  her  frenzied  eyes  pro- 
truding from  their  sockets,  clutching  ferociously  with 
her  nails  at  the  face  of  a  huge  sailor  who  held  her  pinned 
down  on  the  platform,  while  his  comrades  detached  her 
sack. 

How  I  got  out  of  the  fray  I  do  not  know,  but  I  found 
myself  carried  along  with  the  running  stream  of  sack- 
men  over  the  Okhta  Bridge  and  toward  the  Suvorov 
Prospect.  Only  here,  a  mile  from  the  station,  did  they 
settle  into  a  hurried  walk,  gradually  dispersing  down 
side  streets  to  dispose  of  their  precious  goods  to  eager 
clients. 

Completely  bewildered,  I  limped  along,  my  frost- 


198        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

bitten  feet  giving  me  considerable  pain.  I  wondered  in 
my  mind  if  people  at  home  had  any  idea  at  what  a  cost 
the  population  of  Petrograd  secured  the  first  necessities 
of  life  in  the  teeth  of  the  "communist"  rulers.  Still 
musing,  I  came  out  on  the  Znamenskaya  Square  in  front 
of  the  Nicholas  Station,  the  scene  of  many  wild  occur- 
rences in  the  days  of  the  Great  Revolution. 

You  could  still  see  the  hole  in  the  station  roof  whence 
in  those  days  a  machine  gun  manned  by  Protopopoff's 
police  had  fired  down  on  the  crowds  below.  I  had 
watched  the  scene  from  that  little  alcove  just  over  there 
near  the  corner  of  the  Nevsky.  While  I  was  watching, 
the  people  had  discovered  another  policeman  on  the 
roof  of  the  house  just  opposite.  They  threw  him  over 
the  parapet.  He  fell  on  the  pavement  with  a  heavy 
thud,  and  lay  there  motionless.  Everything,  I  remem- 
bered, had  suddenly  seemed  very  quiet  as  I  looked 
across  the  road  at  his  dead  body,  though  the  monoto- 
nous song  of  the  machine  gun  still  sounded  from  the 
station  roof. 

But  next  day  a  new  song  was  sung  in  the  hearts  of  the 
people,  a  song  of  Hope  and  a  song  of  Freedom.  Justice 
shall  now  reign,  said  the  people!  For  it  was  said, 
"The  Tsarist  ways,  and  the  Tsarist  police  are  no  more!" 

To-day,  two  years  later,  it  was  just  such  a  glorious 
winter  morning  as  in  those  days  of  March,  1917.  The 
sun  laughed  to  scorn  the  silly  ways  of  men.  But  the 
song  of  Hope  was  dead,  and  the  people's  faces  bore  the 
imprint  of  starvation,  distress,  and  terror — terror  of 
those  very  same  Tsarist  police!  For  these  others,  who 
did  not  make  the  Revolution,  but  who  were  encouraged 
by  Russia's  enemies  to  return  to  Russia  to  poison  it — 
these  others  copied  the  Tsarist  ways,  and,  restoring  the 


A  VILLAGE  "BOURGEOIS-CAPITALIST"    199 

Tsarist  police,  made  them  their  own.  The  men  and 
women  who  made  the  Revolution,  they  said,  were 
the  enemies  of  the  Revolution !  So  they  put  them  back 
in  prison,  and  hung  other  flags  up.  Here,  stretched 
across  the  Nevsky  Prospect,  on  this  winter  morning  there 
still  fluttered  in  the  breeze  the  tattered  shreds  of 
their  washed-out  red  flags,  besmirched  with  the  catch- 
words with  which  the  Russian  workers  and  the  Russian 
peasants  had  been  duped.  There  still  stood  unremoved 
in  the  middle  of  the  square  the  shabby,  dilapidated, 
four-months-old  remains  of  the  tribunes  and  stages 
which  had  been  erected  to  celebrate  the  anniversary  of 
the  Bolshevist  revolution.  The  inscriptions  every- 
where spoke  not  of  the  "bourgeois  prejudices"  of 
Liberty  and  Justice,  but  of  the  Dictatorship  of  the  Pro- 
letariat (sometimes  hypocritically  called  the  "brother- 
hood of  workers"),  of  class  war,  of  the  sword,  of  blood, 
hatred,  and  world-wide  revolution. 

Looking  up  from  my  bitter  reverie  I  saw  Uncle  Egor, 
from  whom  I  had  got  separated  in  the  scramble  at  the 
railway  station.  I  wanted  to  thank  and  recompense 
him  for  the  food  and  shelter  he  had  given  me. 

"Uncle  Egor,"  I  asked  him,  "how  much  do  I  owe 

you?" 

But  Uncle  Egor  shook  his  head.  He  would  take  no 
recompense. 

"Nothing,  my  little  son,"  he  replied,  "nothing.  And 
come  back  again  when  you  like."  He  looked  round, 
and  lowering  his  voice,  added  cautiously,  "And  if  ever 
you  need  ...  to  run  away  ...  or  hide 
.  .  .  or  anything  like  that  .  .  .  you  know,  little 
son,  who  will  help  you." 


CHAPTER  IX 

METAMORPHOSIS 

I  never  saw  Uncle  Egor  again.  I  sometimes  wonder 
what  has  become  of  him.  I  suppose  he  is  still  there, 
and  he  is  the  winner!  The  Russian  peasant  is  the  ulti- 
mate master  of  the  Russian  Revolution,  as  the  Bolsheviks 
are  learning  to  their  pain.  Once  I  did  set  out,  several 
months  later,  to  invoke  his  help  in  escaping  pursuit,  but 
had  to  turn  back.  Uncle  Egor  lived  in  a  very  inacces- 
sible spot,  the  railway  line  that  had  to  be  traversed  was 
later  included  in  the  war  zone,  travelling  became  diffi- 
cult, and  sometimes  the  trains  were  stopped  altogether. 

There  was  a  cogent  reason,  however,  why  I  hesitated 
to  return  to  Uncle  Egor  except  in  an  emergency.  He 
might  not  have  recognized  me — and  that  brings  me  back 
to  my  story. 

Traversing  the  city  on  this  cold  February  morning, 
I  sensed  an  atmosphere  of  peculiar  unrest  and  subdued 
alarm.  Small  groups  of  guards — Lettish  and  Chinese, 
for  the  most  part — hurrying  hither  and  thither,  were 
evidence  of  special  activity  on  the  part  of  the  Extraordi- 
nary Commission.  I  procured  the  soviet  newspapers, 
but  they,  of  course,  gave  no  indication  that  anything 
was  amiss.  It  was  only  later  that  I  learned  that  during 
the  last  few  days  numerous  arrests  of  supposed  counter- 
revolutionists  had  been  made,  and  that  simultaneously 
measures  were  being  taken  to  prevent  an  anticipated 
outbreak  of  workers'  strikes. 

200 


METAMORPHOSIS  201 

By  usual  devious  routes  I  arrived  in  the  locality  of 
my  empty  flat  "No.  5."  This,  I  was  confident,  was  the 
safest  place  for  me  to  return  to  first.  From  here  I 
would  telephone  to  the  Journalist,  the  Doctor,  and  one 
or  two  other  people,  and  find  out  if  all  was  fair  and 
square  in  their  houses.  If  no  one  had  "been  taken  ill," 
or  "gone  to  hospital,"  or  been  inflicted  with  "unex- 
pected visits  from  country  relatives,"  I  would  look  them 
up  and  find  out  how  the  land  lay  and  if  anything  par- 
ticular had  happened  during  my  absence. 

The  prevailing  atmosphere  of  disquietude  made  me 
approach  the  flat  with  especial  caution.  The  street 
was  all  but  deserted,  the  yard  was  as  foul  and  noisome 
as  ever,  and  the  only  individual  I  encountered  as  I 
crossed  it,  holding  my  breath,  was  a  hideous  wretch, 
shaking  with  disease,  digging  presumably  for  food  in  the 
stinking  heaps  of  rubbish  piled  in  the  corner.  His  jaws 
munched  mechanically,  and  he  looked  up  with  a  guilty 
look,  like  a  dog  discovered  in  some  overt  misdeed. 
From  the  window  as  I  mounted  the  stairs  I  threw  him 
some  money  without  waiting  to  see  how  he  took  it. 

Arriving  at  No.  5, 1  listened  intently  at  the  back  door. 
There  was  no  sound  within.  I  was  about  to  knock, 
when  I  recalled  the  poor  devil  I  had  seen  in  the  yard. 
An  idea  occurred — I  would  give  him  another  forty 
roubles  and  tell  him  to  come  up  and  knock.  Mean- 
while, I  would  listen  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and  if 
I  heard  unfamiliar  voices  at  the  door  I  would  have  time 
to  make  off.  They  would  never  arrest  that  miserable 
outcast  anyway.  But  the  fellow  was  no  longer  in  the 
yard,  and  I  repented  that  I  had  thrown  him  money  and 
interrupted  his  repast.  Misplaced  generosity!  I  re- 
mounted the  stairs  and  applied  my  ear  to  the  door, 


€02        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

Thump — thump — thump!  Nothing  being  audible, 
I  knocked  boldly,  hastily  re-applying  my  ear  to  the 
keyhole  to  await  the  result. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence.  Impatient,  I 
thumped  the  door  a  second  time,  louder.  Then  I  heard 
shuffling  footsteps  moving  along  the  passage.  Without 
waiting,  I  darted  down  the  steps  to  the  landing  below. 
Whoever  came  to  the  door,  I  hurriedly  considered, 
would  be  certain,  when  they  found  no  one  outside,  to 
look  out  over  the  iron  banisters.  If  it  were  a  stranger, 
I  would  say  I  had  mistaken  the  door,  and  bolt. 

The  key  squeaked  in  the  rusty  lock  and  the  door  was 
stiffly  pushed  open.  Shoeless  feet  approached  the  ban- 
isters, and  a  face  peered  over.  Through  the  bars  from 
the  bottom  I  saw  it  was  the  dull  and  unintelligent  face 
of  the  boy,  Grisha,  who  had  replaced  Maria. 

"Grisha,"  I  called,  as  I  mounted  the  stairs,  to  prepare 
him  for  my  return,  "is  that  you?" 

Grisha's  expressionless  features  barely  broke  into  a 
smile.  "Are  you  alone  at  home?"  I  asked  when  I 
reached  him. 

"Alone." 

Grisha  followed  me  into  the  flat,  locking  the  back  door 
behind  him.  The  air  was  musty  with  three  weeks'  un- 
impeded accumulation  of  dust. 

"  Where  is  Maria?  See !  I  have  brought  her  a  lovely 
pair  of  brand-new  shoes.  And  for  you  a  slab  of  choco- 
late.    There!" 

Grisha  took  the  chocolate,  muttering  thanks,  and 
breaking  off  a  morsel  slowly  conveyed  it  to  his  mouth. 

"Well?  Nothing  new,  Grisha?  Is  the  world  still 
going  round?" 

Grisha  stared  and,  preparatory  to  speech,  laboriously 


METAMORPHOSIS  203 

transferred  the  contents  of  his  mouth  into  his  cheek. 
At  last  he  got  it  there,  and,  gulping,  gave  vent  some- 
what inarticulately  to  the  following  unexpected  query: 

"Are  you  Kr-Ki-Kry-len-ko  ?" 

Krylenko!  How  the  deuce  should  this  youngster 
know  my  name  of  Krylenko — or  Afirenko,  or  Marko- 
vitch,  or  any  other?  He  knew  me  only  as  "  Ivan  Hitch," 
a  former  friend  of  his  master. 

But  Grisha  appeared  to  take  it  for  granted.  Without 
waiting  he  proceeded: 

"They  came  again  for  you  this  morning." 

"Who?" 

"A  man  with  two  soldiers." 

"Asking  for 'Krylenko'?" 

"Yes." 

"And  what  did  you  say?" 

"What  you  told  me,  Ivan  Hitch.  That  you  will 
be  away  a  long  time  and  perhaps  not  come  back  at 
all." 

"By  what  wonderful  means,  I  should  like  to  know, 
have  you  discovered  a  connection  between  me  and  any- 
one called  Krylenko?" 

"They  described  you." 

"What  did  they  say?     Tell  me  precisely." 

Grisha  shifted  awkwardly  from  foot  to  foot.  His 
sluggish  brain  exerted  itself  to  remember. 

"Tall — sort  of,  they  said,  black  beard  .  .  . 
long  hair  .  .  .  one  front  tooth  missing  .  .  . 
speaks  not  quite  our  way     .     .     .     walks  quickly." 

Was  Grisha  making  this  up?  Surely  he  had  not 
sufficient  ingenuity!  I  questioned  him  minutely  as  to 
when  the  unwelcome  visitors  had  first  come  and  made 
him  repeat  every  word  they  had  said  and  his  replies. 


204        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

I  saw  then,  that  it  was  true.     I  was  known,  and  they 
were  awaiting  my  return. 

"To-day  was  the  second  time,"  said  Grisha.  "First 
they  came  a  few  days  ago.  They  looked  round  and 
opened  the  cupboards,  but  when  they  found  them  all 
empty,  they  went  away.  '  Uyehal — departed,'  said  one 
to  the  others.  'There's  nothing  here,  so  it's  useless  to 
leave  anyone.  When  will  he  return?'  he  asks  me. 
'There's  no  knowing,'  I  tell  him.  'Maybe  you'll  never 
come  back,'  I  said.  Early  this  morning  when  they  came 
I  told  them  the  same." 

A  moment's  consideration  convinced  me  that  there  was 
only  one  line  of  action.  I  must  quit  the  flat  like  light- 
ning.    The  next  step  must  be  decided  in  the  street. 

"Grisha,"  I  said,  "you  have  acquitted  yourself  well. 
If  ever  anyone  asks  for  me  again,  tell  them  I  have  left 
the  city  for  good,  and  shall  never  return.  Does  Maria 
know?" 

"Maria  is  still  at  the  farm.  I  have  not  seen  her  for 
two  weeks." 

"Well,  tell  her  the  same — because  it's  true.  Good- 
bye." 

Arriving  in  the  street,  I  began  to  think.  Had  I  not 
better  have  told  Grisha  simply  to  say  nobody  had  come 
back  at  all?  But  Grisha  was  sure  to  bungle  the  moment 
he  was  cross-questioned  and  then  they  would  think  him 
an  accomplice.  It  was  too  late,  anyway.  I  must  now 
think  of  how  to  change  my  appearance  completely  and 
with  the  minimum  of  delay.  The  nearest  place  to  go 
to  was  the  Journalist's.  If  he  could  not  help  me  I  would 
lie  low  there  till  nightfall  and  then  go  to  the  Doctor's. 

Limping  along  painfully,  half  covering  my  face  with 
my  scarf  as  if  I  had  a  toothache,  I  approached  the 


METAMORPHOSIS  205 

Journalist's  home.  He  lived  on  the  first  floor,  thank 
heaven,  so  there  would  be  only  one  flight  of  stairs  to 
ascend. 

From  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  I  scrutinized  the 
exterior  of  the  house.  Through  the  glass  door  I  could 
see  nobody  in  the  hall  and  there  was  nothing  to  indicate 
that  anything  was  amiss.  So  I  crossed  the  road  and 
entered. 

The  floor-tiling  in  the  hall  was  loose  and  had  long 
needed  repair,  but  I  tiptoed  over  it  gently  and  without 
noise.  Then,  with  one  foot  on  the  bottom  stair,  I 
stopped  dead.  What  was  that  disturbance  on  the  first 
landing  just  over  my  head?     I  listened  intently. 

Whispering. 

There  must  be  two  or  three  people  on  the  first  landing, 
conferring  in  low  tones,  and  from  the  direction  of  the 
voices  it  was  clear  they  were  just  outside  the  Journalist's 
door.  I  caught  the  word  "pick-lock,"  and  somebody 
passed  some  keys,  one  of  winch  seemed  to  be  inserted 
in  the  lock. 

Thieves,  possibly.  But  robbery  was  becoming  rare 
in  these  days  when  the  bourgeoisie  had  scarcely  any- 
thing more  to  be  relieved  of,  and  anyway  why  should 
the  Journalist's  flat  particularly  be  selected  and  the 
theft  perpetrated  in  broad  daylight?  It  was  far  more 
likely  that  the  dwelling  was  to  be  subjected  to  a  sudden 
search,  and  that  the  raiders  wished  to  surprise  the 
occupant  or  occupants  without  giving  them  time  to 
secrete  anything.  In  any  case,  thieves  or  searchers, 
this  was  no  place  for  me.  I  turned  and  tiptoed  hur- 
riedly out  of  the  hall. 

And  very  foolish  it  was  of  me  to  hurry,  too!  for  I 
should  have  remembered  the  flooring  was  out  of  repair. 


206        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

The  loose  tiles  rattled  beneath  my  feet  like  pebbles, 
the  noise  was  heard  above,  and  down  the  stairs  there 
charged  a  heavy  pair  of  boots.  Outside  was  better  than 
in,  anyway,  so  I  did  not  stop,  but  just  as  I  was  slipping 
into  the  street  I  was  held  up  from  behind  by  a  big  burly 
workman,  dressed  in  a  leathern  jacket  covered  with 
belts  of  cartridges,  who  held  a  revolver  at  my  head. 

It  is  a  debatable  point,  which  tactics  is  more  effective 
in  a  tight  corner  —  to  laugh  defiantly  with  brazen 
audacity,  or  to  assume  a  crazy  look  of  utter  imbecility. 
Practised  to  an  extreme,  either  will  pull  you  through 
almost  any  scrape,  granted  your  adversary  displays  a 
particle  of  doubt  or  hesitancy.  From  my  present  be- 
draggled and  exhausted  appearance  to  one  of  vacant 
stupidity  was  but  a  step,  so  when  the  cartridge-bedecked 
individual  challenged  me  with  his  revolver  and  de- 
manded to  know  my  business,  I  met  his  gaze  with  terri- 
fied blinking  eyes,  shaking  limbs,  slobbering  lips,  and 
halting  speech. 

"Stand!"  he  bawled,  "what  do  you  want  here?" 
His  voice  was  raucous  and  threatening. 

I  looked  up  innocently  over  his  head  at  the  lintel  of 
the  door. 

"Is — is  this  No.  29?"  I  stammered,  with  my  fea- 
tures contorted  into  an  insane  grin.  "It  is — I — I  mis- 
took it  for  No.  39,  wh-which  I  want.     Thank  you." 

Mumbling  and  leering  idiotically,  I  limped  off  like  a 
cripple.  Every  second  I  expected  to  hear  him  shout 
an  order  to  halt.  But  he  merely  glared,  and  I  remem- 
bered I  had  seen  just  such  a  glare  before,  on  the  face  of 
that  other  man  whom  I  encountered  in  Marsh's  house 
the  day  of  my  first  arrival  in  Petrograd.  As  I  stumbled 
along,  looking  up  with  blinking  eyes  at  all  the  shop-  and 


METAMORPHOSIS  207 

door-lintels  as  I  passed  them,  I  saw  out  of  the  corner  of 
my  eye  that  the  cartridge-covered  individual  had  low- 
ered his  revolver  to  his  side.  Then  he  turned  and  re- 
entered the  house. 


"The  blades  are  pretty  blunt,  I  am  afraid,"  observed 
the  Doctor,  as  he  produced  his  Gillette  razor  and  placed 
it  on  the  table  before  me.  "They  still  mow  me  all 
right,  but  I've  got  a  soft  chin.  The  man  who  smuggles 
a  box-full  of  razor-blades  into  this  country  will  make  his 
fortune.     Here's  the  brush,  and  soap — my  last  piece." 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day.  I  sat 
in  the  Doctor's  study  before  a  mirror,  preparing  to  per- 
form an  excruciating  surgical  operation,  namely,  the 
removal  with  a  blunt  safety-razor  of  the  shaggy  hirsute 
appendage  that  for  nearly  six  months  had  decorated 
my  cheeks,  chin,  and  nether  lip. 

The  Doctor,  as  you  see,  was  still  at  liberty.  It  was 
with  some  trepidation  that  I  had  approached  his  house 
on  this  day  when  everything  seemed  to  be  going  wrong. 
But  we  had  agreed  upon  a  sign  by  which  I  might  know, 
every  time  I  called,  whether  it  were  safe  to  enter.  A 
large  box  was  placed  in  the  window  in  such  a  position  as 
to  be  visible  from  the  street.  Its  absence  would  be  a 
danger-signal.  The  Doctor  had  suggested  this  device 
as  much  for  his  own  sake  as  mine :  he  had  no  desire  that 
I  should  come  stumbling  in  if  he  were  engaged  in  an 
altercation  with  a  delegation  from  No.  2  Gorohovaya,  and 
there  was  no  house  in  the  city  that  was  immune  from 
these  unwelcome  visitors.  But  the  box  was  in  the 
window,  so  I  was  in  the  flat. 

Before  operating  with  the  razor  I  reduced  my  beard 


208        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

as  far  as  possible  with  the  scissors.  Even  this  altered 
my  appearance  to  a  remarkable  degree.  Then  I 
brought  soap-brush  and  blade  into  play — but  the  less 
said  of  the  ensuing  painful  hour  the  better !  The  Doctor 
then  assumed  the  role  of  hair-dresser.  He  cut  off  my 
flowing  locks,  and,  though  it  was  hardly  necessary,  dyed 
my  hair  coal-black  with  some  German  dye-stuff  he  had 
got. 

Except  for  one  detail,  my  transformation  was  now 
complete.  Cutting  open  the  lapel  of  the  jacket  I  was 
discarding,  I  extracted  a  tiny  paper  packet,  and  un- 
wrapping it,  took  out  the  contents — my  missing  tooth, 
carefully  preserved  for  this  very  emergency.  A  little 
wadding  served  effectually  as  a  plug.  I  inserted  it  in 
the  gaping  aperture  in  my  top  row  of  teeth,  and  what 
had  so  recently  been  a  diabolic  leer  became  a  smile  as 
seemly  (I  hope)  as  that  of  any  other  normal  individual. 

The  clean-shaven,  short-haired,  tidy  but  indigent- 
looking  person  in  eye-glasses,  who  made  his  way  down 
the  Doctor's  staircase  next  morning  attired  in  the 
Doctor's  old  clothes,  resembled  the  shaggy -haired,  limp- 
ing maniac  of  the  previous  day  about  as  nearly  as  he 
did  the  cook  who  preceded  him  down  the  stairs.  The 
cook  was  going  to  engage  the  house-porter's  attention 
if  the  latter  presented  himself,  in  order  that  he  might 
not  notice  the  exit  of  a  person  who  had  never  entered. 
So  when  the  cook  disappeared  into  the  porter's  cave-like 
abode  just  inside  the  front  door,  covering  with  her  back 
the  little  glass  window  through  which  he  or  his  wife 
always  peered,  and  began  greeting  the  pair  with  enthu- 
siastic heartiness,  I  slipped  unnoticed  into  the  street. 

In  the  dilapidated  but  capacious  boots  the  Doctor 
found  for  me  I  was  able  to  walk  slowly  without  limping. 


METAMORPHOSIS  209 

But  I  used  a  walking-stick,  and  this  added  curiously  to 
my  new  appearance,  which  I  think  may  be  described  as 
that  of  an  ailing,  underfed  "intellectual"  of  student 
type.  It  is  a  fact  that  during  these  days,  when  in  view 
of  my  lameness  I  could  not  move  rapidly,  I  passed  un- 
molested and  untouched  out  of  more  than  one  scuffle 
when  raiders  rounded  up  "speculators,"  and  crossed 
the  bridges  without  so  much  as  being  asked  for  my 
papers. 

It  took  me  several  days  to  get  thoroughly  accustomed 
to  my  new  exterior.  I  found  myself  constantly  glancing 
into  mirrors  and  shop-windows  in  the  street,  smiling 
with  amusement  at  my  own  reflection.  In  the  course 
of  ensuing  weeks  and  months  I  encountered  several 
people  with  whom  I  had  formerly  had  connections, 
and  though  some  of  them  looked  me  in  the  face  I  was 
never  recognized. 

It  was  about  a  week  later,  when  walking  along  the 
river-quay,  that  I  espied  to  my  surprise  on  the  other 
side  of  the  road  Melnikoff's  friend  of  Viborg  days  whom 
I  had  hoped  to  find  in  Finland — Ivan  Sergeievitch.  He 
was  well  disguised  as  a  soldier,  with  worn-out  boots  and 
shabby  cap.  I  followed  him  in  uncertainly,  passing  and 
repassing  him  two  or  three  times  to  make  sure.  But  a 
scar  on  his  cheek  left  no  further  doubt.  So,  waiting 
until  he  was  close  to  the  gate  of  the  garden  on  the  west 
side  of  the  "Winter  Palace,  the  wall  of  which  with  the 
imperial  monograms  was  being  removed,  I  stepped  up 
behind  him. 

"Ivan  Sergeievitch,"  I  said  in  a  low  voice. 

He  stopped  dead,  not  looking  round. 

"It  is  all  right,"  I  continued,  "step  into  the  garden, 
you  will  recognize  me  in  a  minute." 


210        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

He  followed  me  cautiously  at  some  paces  distance 
and  we  sat  down  on  a  bench  amongst  the  bushes.  In 
this  little  garden  former  emperors  and  empresses  had 
promenaded  when  occupying  the  Winter  Palace.  In 
the  olden  days  before  the  revolution  I  often  used  to 
wonder  what  was  hidden  behind  the  massive  wall  and 
railings  with  imperial  monograms  that  surrounded  it. 
But  it  was  only  a  plain  little  enclosure  with  winding 
paths,  bushes,  and  a  small  fountain. 

"My  God!"  exclaimed  Ivan  Sergeievitch,  in  astonish- 
ment, when  I  had  convinced  him  of  my  bona  fide  identity. 
"Is  it  possible?  No  one  would  recognize  you!  It  is 
you  I  have  been  looking  for." 

"Me?" 

"Yes.    Do  you  not  know  that  Zorinsky  is  in  Finland?  " 

Zorinsky  again!  Though  it  was  only  a  week,  it 
seemed  ages  since  I  had  last  crossed  the  frontier,  and  the 
Zorinsky  episode  already  belonged  to  the  distant  past — 
when  I  was  somebody  and  something  else.  I  was  sur- 
prised how  little  interest  the  mention  of  his  name  excited 
in  me.  I  was  already  entirely  engrossed  in  a  new  politi- 
cal situation  that  had  arisen. 

"Is  he?"  I  replied.  "I  went  to  Finland  myself  re- 
cently, partly  to  see  you  about  that  very  fellow.  I  saw 
your  wife.  But  nobody  seems  to  know  anything  about 
him,  and  I  have  ceased  to  care." 

"You  have  no  notion  what  a  close  shave  you  have 
had,  Pavel  Pavlovitch.  I  will  tell  you  what  I  know. 
When  I  heard  from  my  wife  that  Varia  was  arrested  and 
that  you  were  in  touch  witli  Zorinsky,  I  returned  to 
Finland  and,  although  I  am  condemned  by  the  Bolshe- 
viks to  be  shot,  set  out  at  once  for  Petrograd.  You  see, 
Zorinsky "' 


Drawn  for  the  Illustrated  London  News  from  material  supplied  by  the  author. 

Night  quarters  of  the  "bourgeois" 


A  Daughter  of  the  Soil 


METAMORPHOSIS  211 

And  Ivan  Sergeievitch  unfolded  to  me  a  tale  that  was 
strange  indeed.  I  have  forgotten  some  details  of  it 
but  it  was  roughly  as  follows: 

Zorinsky,  under  another  name,  had  been  an  officer 
in  the  old  army.  He  distinguished  himself  for  reckless 
bravery  at  the  front  and  drunkenness  in  the  rear. 
During  the  war  he  had  had  some  financial  losses,  became 
implicated  in  attempted  embezzlement,  and  later  was 
caught  cheating  at  cards.  He  was  invited  to  resign  from 
his  regiment,  but  was  reinstated  after  an  interval  in 
view  of  his  military  services.  He  again  distinguished 
himself  in  battle,  but  was  finally  excluded  from  the  regi- 
ment shortly  before  the  revolution,  this  time  on  the 
ground  of  misconduct.  During  1917  he  was  known  to 
have  failed  in  some  grandiose  deals  of  a  speculative 
and  doubtful  character.  He  then  disappeared  for  a 
time,  but  in  the  summer  of  1918  was  found  living  in 
Petrograd  under  various  names,  ostensibly  hiding  from 
the  Bolsheviks.  Although  his  business  deals  were  usu- 
ally unsuccessful,  he  appeared  always  to  be  in  affluent 
circumstances.  It  was  this  fact,  and  a  certain  strange- 
ness of  manner,  that  led  Ivan  Sergeievitch  to  regard  him 
with  strong  suspicion.  He  had  him  watched,  and  estab- 
lished beyond  all  doubt  that  he  was  endeavouring  to 
gain  admission  to  various  counter-revolutionary  organ- 
izations on  behalf  of  the  Bolsheviks. 

Shortly  afterward,  Ivan  Sergeievitch  was  arrested 
under  circumstances  that  showed  that  only  Zorinsky 
could  have  betrayed  him.  But  he  escaped  on  the  very 
night  that  he  was  to  be  shot  by  breaking  from  his  guards 
and  throwing  himself  over  the  parapet  of  the  Neva 
into  the  river.  In  Finland,  whither  he  fled,  he  met  and 
formed  a  close  friendship  with  Melnikoff,  who,  after  the 


212        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

Yaroslavl  affair  and  his  own  escape,  had  assisted  in  the 
establishment  of  a  system  of  communication  with 
Petrograd,  occasionally  revisiting  the  city  himself. 

"Of  course  I  told  Melnikoff  of  Zorinsky,"  said  Ivan 
Sergeievitch,  "though  I  could  not  know  that  Zorinsky 
would  track  him.     But  he  got  the  better  of  us  both." 

"Then  why,"  I  asked,  "did  Melnikoff  associate  with 
him?" 

"He  never  saw  him,  so  far  as  I  know." 

"What!"  I  exclaimed.  "But  Zorinsky  said  he  knew 
him  well  and  always  called  him  'an  old  friend'!" 

"Zorinsky  may  have  seen  Melnikoff,  but  he  never 
spoke  to  him,  that  I  know  of.  Melnikoff  was  a  friend  of 
a  certain  Vera  Alexandrovna  X.,  who  kept  a  secret  cafe 
— you  knew  it?  Ah,  if  I  had  known  Melnikoff  had  told 
you  of  it  I  should  have  warned  you.  From  other  people 
who  escaped  from  Petrograd  I  learned  that  Zorinsky 
frequented  the  cafe  too.  He  was  merely  lying  in  wait 
for  Melnikoff." 

"You  mean  he  deliberately  betrayed  him?" 

"It  is  evident.  Put  two  and  two  together.  Melni- 
koff was  a  known  and  much-feared  counter-revolution- 
ary. Zorinsky  was  in  the  service  of  the  Extraordinary 
Commission  and  was  well  paid,  no  doubt.  He  also 
betrayed  Vera  Alexandrovna  and  her  cafe,  probably 
receiving  so  much  per  head.  I  heard  of  that  from  other 
people." 

"Then  why  did  he  not  betray  me  too?"  I  asked  in- 
credulously. 

"You  gave  him  money,  I  suppose?" 

I  told  Ivan  Sergeievitch  the  whole  story,  how  I  had 
met  Zorinsky,  his  offer  to  release  Melnikoff,  the  sixty 
thousand  roubles  and   other  payments   "for  odd  ex- 


METAMORPHOSIS  213 

penses"  amounting  to  about  a  hundred  thousand  in  all. 
I  also  told  him  of  the  valuable  and  accurate  information 
Zorinsky  had  provided  me  with. 

"That  is  just  what  he  would  do,"  said  Ivan  Sergeie- 
vitch.  "He  worked  for  both  sides.  A  hundred  thous- 
and. I  suppose,  is  all  he  thought  he  could  get  out  of 
you,  so  now  he  has  gone  to  Finland.  Something  must 
have  happened  to  you  here,  for  he  wanted  to  prevent 
your  returning  to  Russia  and  pose  as  your  saviour.  Is 
it  not  true  that  something  has  happened.'" 

I  told  him  of  the  discovery  of  the  Journalist's  flat  and 
"No.  5."  but.  unless  I  had  been  tracked  unnoticed,  there 
was  no  especial  reason  to  believe  Zorinsky  could  have 
discovered  either  of  these.  The  betrayal  of  the  name 
"Krylenko"  was  of  course  easily  traceable  to  him,  but 
whence  had  he  known  the  addresses? 

And  then  I  remembered  that  I  had  never  telephoned 
to  Zorinsky  from  anywhere  except  from  "No.  o"  and 
the  Journalist's,  for  those  were  the  only  places  where  I 
could  speak  without  being  overheard.  I  suggested  the 
coincidence  to  Ivan  Sergeievitch. 

"Aha!"  he  cried,  obviously  regarding  the  evidence 
as  conclusive.  "Of  course  he  enquired  for  your  tele- 
phone numbers  directly  you  had  spoken !  But  he  would 
not  betray  you  as  long  as  you  continued  to  pay  him. 
Besides,  he  doubtless  hoped  eventually  to  unearth  a 
big  organization.  As  for  your  betrayal,  any  time  would 
do,  and  the  reward  was  always  certain.  It  might  be 
another  hundred  thousand  for  your  haunts.  And  then, 
you  see,  in  Finland  he  would  warn  you  against  returning 
and  get  some  more  out  of  you  for  this  further  great 
service.     He  was  furious  to  find  you  had  just  left." 

From  the  windows  of  the  Winter  Palace  prying  eyes 


214        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

were  looking  down  into  the  garden.  Two  figures  sit- 
ting so  long  on  a  cold  day  in  the  bushes  would  begin 
to  be  suspicious.  We  rose  and  walked  out  on  to  the 
quay. 

Seating  ourselves  on  one  of  the  stone  benches  set  in 
the  parapet  of  the  river,  Ivan  Sergeievitch  told  me  many 
things  that  were  of  the  greatest  value.  An  entirely 
new  set  of  associations  grew  out  of  this  conversation. 
He  also  said  that  Varia  had  just  been  released  from 
prison  and  that  he  was  going  to  take  her  with  him  across 
the  frontier  that  night.  He  had  been  unable  to  find 
Stepanovna,  but  supposed  she  was  staying  with  friends. 
I  agreed  if  ever  I  heard  of  her  to  let  him  know. 

"Will  Zorinsky  come  back  to  Russia,  do  you  think?" 
I  asked. 

"I  have  no  idea,"  was  the  reply;  and  he  added, 
again  staring  at  my  transformed  physiognomy  and 
laughing,  "but  you  certainly  have  no  cause  to  fear  his 
recognizing  you  now!" 

Such  was  the  strange  story  of  Zorinsky  as  I  learnt  it 
from  Ivan  Sergeievitch.  I  never  heard  it  corroborated 
except  by  the  Doctor,  who  didn't  know  Zorinsky,  but  I 
had  no  reason  to  doubt  it.  It  certainly  tallied  with  my 
own  experiences.  And  he  was  only  one  of  several. 
As  Ivan  Sergeievitch  observed:  "There  are  not  a  few 
Zorinskys,  I  fear,  and  they  are  the  ruin  and  shame  of 
our  class." 

Twice,  later,  I  was  reminded  acutely  of  this  singular 
personage,  who,  as  it  transpired,  did  return  to  Russia. 
The  first  time  was  when  I  learned  through  acquaintances 
of  Ivan  Sergeievitch  that  Zorinsky  believed  me  to  be 
back  in  Petrograd,  and  had  related  to  somebody  in  tones 
of  admiration  that  he  himself  had  seen  me  driving  down 


METAMORPHOSIS  215 

the  Nevsky  Prospect  in  a  carriage  and  pair  in  the 
company  of  one  of  the  chief  Bolshevist  Commissars! 

The  second  time  was  months  later,  when  I  espied  him 
standing  in  a  doorway,  smartly  dressed  in  a  blue 
"French"  and  knee-breeches,  about  to  mount  a  motor- 
cycle. I  was  on  the  point  of  descending  from  a  street 
car  when  our  eyes  met.  I  stopped  and  pushed  my  way 
back  into  the  crowd  of  passengers.  Being  in  the  uni- 
form of  a  Red  soldier  I  feared  his  recognition  of  me  not 
by  my  exterior,  but  by  another  peculiar  circumstance. 
Under  the  influence  of  sudden  emotion  a  sort  of  tele- 
pathic communication  sometimes  takes  place  without 
the  medium  of  words  and  even  regardless  of  distance.  It 
has  several  times  happened  to  me.  Rightly  or  wrongly 
I  suspected  it  now.  I  pushed  my  way  through  the  car 
to  the  front  platform  and  looking  back  over  the  heads 
of  the  passengers,  imagined  (maybe  it  was  mere  imagin- 
ation) I  saw  Zorinsky's  eyes  also  peering  over  the 
passengers'  heads  toward  me. 

I  did  not  wait  to  make  sure.  The  incident  occurred 
in  the  Zagorodny  Prospect.  Passing  the  Tsarskoselsky 
station  I  jumped  off  the  car  while  it  was  still  in  motion, 
stooped  beneath  its  side  till  it  passed,  and  boarded 
another  in  the  opposite  direction.  At  the  station  I 
jumped  off,  entered  the  building  and  sat  amongst  the 
massed  herds  of  peasants  and  "speculators"  till  dusk. 

Eventually  I  heard  that  Zorinsky  had  been  shot  by  the 
Bolsheviks.  If  so,  it  was  an  ironic  and  fitting  close  to 
his  career.  Perhaps  they  discovered  him  again  serving 
two  or  more  masters.  But  the  news  impressed  me  but 
little,  for  I  had  ceased  to  care  whether  Zorinsky  was 
shot  or  not. 


PART  H 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    SPHINX 

A  detailed  narrative  of  my  experiences  during  the 
following  six  months  would  surpass  the  dimensions  to 
which  I  must  limit  this  book.  Some  of  them  I  hope  to 
make  the  subject  of  a  future  story.  For  I  met  other 
"Stepanovnas,"  "Marias  "and  "Journalists,"  in  whom 
I  came  to  trust  as  implicitly  as  in  the  old  and  who 
were  a  very  present  help  in  time  of  trouble.  I  also 
inevitably  met  with  scoundrels,  but  though  No.  2 
Gorohovaya  again  got  close  upon  my  track — even  closer 
than  through  Zorinsky — and  one  or  two  squeaks  were 
very  narrow  indeed ,  still  I  have  survived  to  tell  the  tale. 

This  is  partly  because  the  precautions  I  took  to  avoid 
detection  became  habitual.  Only  on  one  occasion  was 
I  obliged  to  destroy  documents  of  value,  while  of  the 
couriers  who,  at  grave  risk,  carried  communications 
back  and  forth  from  Finland,  only  two  failed  to  arrive 
and  I  presume  were  caught  and  shot.  But  the  mes- 
sages they  bore  (as  indeed  any  notes  I  ever  made)  were 
composed  in  such  a  manner  that  they  could  not  possibly 
be  traced  to  any  individual  or  address. 

I  wrote  mostly  at  night,  in  minute  handwriting  on 
tracing-paper,  with  a  small  caoutchouc  bag  about  four 
inches  in  length,  weighted  with  lead,  ready  at  my  side. 
In  case  of  alarm  all  my  papers  could  be  slipped  into 
this  bag  and  within  thirty  seconds  be  transferred  to  the 
bottom  of  a  tub  of  washing  or  the  cistern  of  the  water- 

219 


220        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

closet.  In  efforts  to  discover  arms  or  incriminating 
documents,  I  have  seen  pictures,  carpets,  and  book 
shelves  removed  and  everything  turned  topsy-turvy 
by  diligent  searchers,  but  it  never  occurred  to  anybody 
to  search  through  a  pail  of  washing  or  thrust  his  hand 
into  the  water-closet  cistern. 

Through  the  agency  of  friends  I  secured  a  post  as 
draftsman  at  a  small  factory  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
city.  A  relative  of  one  of  the  officials  of  this  place, 
whose  signature  was  attached  to  my  papers  and  who 
is  well  known  to  the  Bolsheviks,  called  on  me  recently 
in  New  York.  I  showed  him  some  notes  I  had  made  on 
the  subject,  but  he  protested  that,  camouflaged  though 
my  references  were,  they  might  still  be  traced  to  individ- 
uals concerned,  most  of  whom,  with  their  families,  are 
still  in  Russia.  I  therefore  suppressed  them.  For 
similar  reasons  I  am  still  reticent  in  details  concerning 
the  regiment  of  the  Red  army  to  which  I  was  finally 
attached. 

Learning  through  military  channels  at  my  disposal 
that  men  of  my  age  and  industrial  status  were  shortly 
to  be  mobilized  and  despatched  to  the  eastern  front, 
where  the  advance  of  Kolchak  was  growing  to  be  a 
serious  menace,  I  forestalled  the  mobilization  order  by 
about  a  week  and  applied  for  admission  as  a  volunteer 
in  the  regiment  of  an  officer  acquaintance,  stationed  a 
short  distance  outside  Petrograd.  There  was  some 
not  unnatural  hesitation  before  I  received  an  answer, 
due  to  the  necessity  of  considering  the  personality  of 
the  regimental  commissar — a  strong  Communist  who 
wished  to  have  the  regiment  despatched  to  perform  its 
revolutionary  duty  against  Kolchak's  armies.  But  at 
the  critical  moment  this  individual  was  promoted  to  a 


THE  SPHINX  221 

higher  divisional  post,  and  the  commander  succeeded 
in  getting  nominated  to  his  regiment  a  commissar  of 
shaky  communistic  principles,  who  ultimately  devel- 
oped anti-Bolshevist  sympathies  almost  as  strong  as  his 
own.  How  my  commander,  a  Tsarist  officer,  who  de- 
tested and  feared  the  Communists,  was  forced  to  serve 
in  the  Red  army  I  will  explain  later. 

Despite  his  ill-concealed  sympathies,  however,  this 
gentleman  won  Trotzky's  favour  in  an  unexpected  and 
remarkable  manner.  Being  instructed  to  impede  an 
advance  of  the  forces  of  the  "White"  general,  Yuden- 
itch,  by  the  destruction  of  strategic  bridges,  he  resolved 
to  blow  up  the  wrong  bridge,  and,  if  possible,  cut  off  the 
Red  retreat  and  assist  the  White  advance.  By  sheer 
mistake,  however,  the  company  he  despatched  to  per- 
form the  task  blew  up  the  right  bridge,  thus  covering  a 
precipitate  Red  retreat  and  effectually  checking  the 
WTiite  advance. 

For  days  my  commander  secretly  tore  his  hair 
and  wept,  his  mortification  rendered  the  more  acute 
by  the  commendation  he  was  obliged  for  the  sake 
of  appearances  to  shower  upon  his  men,  whose  judg- 
ment had  apparently  been  so  superior  to  his  own. 
His  chagrin  reached  its  height  when  he  received  an 
official  communication  from  army  headquarters  ap- 
plauding the  timely  exploit,  while  through  the  Com- 
munist organization  he  was  formally  invited  to  join 
the  privileged  ranks  of  the  Communist  Party!  In  the 
view  of  my  commander  no  affront  could  have  been 
more  offensive  than  this  unsought  Bolshevist  honour. 
He  was  utterly  at  a  loss  to  grasp  my  point  of  view 
when  I  told  him  what  to  me  was  obvious,  namely, 
that  no  offer  could  have  been  more  providential  and 


G22        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

that  he  ought  to  jump  at  it.  Though  inside  Russia 
the  approaching  White  armies  were  often  imagined 
to  be  a  band  of  noble  and  chivalrous  crusaders,  certain 
information  I  had  received  as  to  the  disorganization 
prevailing  amongst  them  aroused  my  misgivings,  and 
I  was  very  doubtful  whether  my  commander's  error 
had  materially  altered  the  course  of  events.  The 
commissar,  who  did  not  care  one  way  or  the  other, 
saw  the  humour  of  the  situation.  He,  too,  urged 
the  commander  to  smother  his  feelings  and  see  the 
joke,  with  the  result  that  the  would-be  traitor  to  the 
pseudo-proletarian  cause  became  a  Communist,  and 
combining  his  persuasions  with  those  of  the  commis- 
sar, succeeded  in  keeping  the  regiment  out  of  further 
action  for  several  weeks.  The  confidence  they  had 
won  made  it  easy  to  convince  army  headquarters 
that  the  regiment  was  urgently  required  to  suppress 
uprisings  which  were  feared  in  the  capital.  When 
disturbances  did  break  out,  however,  the  quelling 
of  them  was  entrusted  to  troops  drafted  from  the 
far  south  or  east,  for  it  was  well  known  that  no  troops 
indigenous  to  Petrograd  or  Moscow  could  be  relied 
upon  to  fire  on  their  own  population. 

I  had  hitherto  evaded  military  service  as  long  as 
possible,  fearing  that  it  might  impede  the  conduct  of 
my  intelligence  work.  The  contrary  proved  to  be 
the  case,  and  for  many  reasons  I  regretted  I  had  not 
enlisted  earlier.  Apart  from  greater  freedom  of  move- 
ment and  preference  over  civilians  in  application  for 
lodging,  amusement,  or  travelling  tickets,  the  Red  soldier 
received  rations  greatly  superior  both  in  quantity  and 
quality  to  those  of  the  civilian  population.  Previous 
to  this  time  I  had  received  only  half  a  pound  of  bread 


THE  SPHINX  223 

daily  and  had  had  to  take  my  scanty  dinner  at  a  filthy 
communal  eating-house,  but  as  a  Red  soldier  I  received, 
besides  a  dinner  and  other  odds  and  ends  not  worth 
mentioning,  a  pound  and  sometimes  a  pound  and  a 
half  of  tolerably  good  black  bread,  which  alone  was 
sufficient,  accustomed  as  I  am  to  a  crude  diet,  to  sub- 
sist on  with  relative  comfort. 

The  commander  was  a  good  fellow,  nervous  and 
sadly  out  of  place  in  "the  party,"  but  he  soon  got  used 
to  it  and  enjoyed  its  many  privileges.  He  stood  me 
in  good  stead.  Repeatedly  detailing  me  off  to  any 
place  I  wished  to  go  to,  on  missions  he  knew  were 
lengthy  (such  as  the  purchase  of  automobile  tires 
which  were  unobtainable,  or  literature  of  various  kinds) 
I  was  able  to  devote  my  main  attention  as  before  to 
the  political  and  economic  situation. 

As  a  Red  soldier,  I  was  sent  to  Moscow  and  there 
consulted  with  the  National  Centre,  the  most  promis- 
ing of  the  political  organizations  whose  object  was  to 
work  out  a  programme  acceptable  to  the  Russian  people 
as  a  whole.  On  account  of  its  democratic  character 
this  organization  was  pursued  by  the  Bolshevist 
Government  with  peculiar  zeal,  and  was  finally  un- 
earthed, and  its  members,  of  whom  many  were  So- 
cialists, shot.*  From  Moscow  also  I  received  regularly 
copies  of  the  summaries  on  the  general  situation 
that  were  submitted  to  the  Soviet  of  People's  Com- 
missars. The  questions  I  was  instructed  in  messages 
from  abroad  to  investigate   covered  the   entire  field 

*The  Bolsheviks  assert  that  I  lent  the  National  Centre  financial  assis- 
tance. This  is  unfortunately  untrue,  for  the  British  Government  had  fur- 
nished me  with  no  funds  for  such  a  purpose.  I  drew  the  Government's 
attention  to  the  existence  of  the  National  Centre,  but  the  latter  was  sup- 
pressed by  the  Reds  too  early  for  any  action  to  be  taken. 


224        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

of  soviet  administration,  but  I  do  not  plan  to  deal 
with  that  huge  subject  here.  It  is  the  present  and 
the  inscrutable  future  that  fascinate  me  rather  than 
the  past.  I  will  speak  only  of  the  peasantry,  the  army, 
and  "the  party."  For  it  is  on  the  ability  or  inability 
of  the  Communists  to  control  the  army  that  the 
stability  of  the  Bolshevist  regime  in  considerable 
measure  depends,  while  the  future  lies  in  the  lap 
of  that  vast  inarticulate  mass  of  simple  peasant  toilers, 
so  justly  termed  the  Russian  Sphinx. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   RED   ARMY 

The  day  I  joined  my  regiment  I  donned  my  Red 
army  uniform,  consisting  of  a  khaki  shirt,  yellow 
breeches,  putties,  and  a  pair  of  good  boots  which  I 
bought  from  another  soldier  (the  army  at  that  time 
was  not  issuing  boots),  and  a  gray  army  overcoat. 
On  my  cap  I  wore  the  Red  army  badge — a  red  star  with 
a  mallet  and  plough  imprinted  on  it. 

This  could  not  be  said  to  be  the  regular  Red  army 
uniform,  though  it  was  as  regular  as  any.  Except 
for  picked  troops,  smartly  apparelled  in  the  best  the 
army  stores  could  provide,  the  rank  and  file  of  recruits 
wore  just  anything,  and  often  had  only  bast  slippers 
in  place  of  boots.  There  is  bitter  irony  and  a  world 
of  significance  in  the  fact  that  in  1920,  when  I  ob- 
served the  Red  army  again  from  the  Polish  front,  I 
found  many  of  the  thousands  who  deserted  to  the 
Poles  wearing  British  uniforms  which  had  been  sup- 
plied, together  with  so  much  war  material,  to  Denikin. 

"  Tovarishtch  Kommandir,"  I  would  say  on  presenting 
myself  before  my  commander,  "pozvoltye  dolozhitj.  . 
.  .  Comrade  Commander,  allow  me  to  report  that 
the  allotted  task  is  executed." 

"Good,  comrade  So-and-so,"  would  be  the  reply, 
"I  will  hear  your  report  immediately,"  or:  "Hold 
yourself  in  readiness  at  such  and  such  an  hour  to- 
morrow." 

22$ 


226        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

The  terminology  of  the  former  army,  like  the  nomen- 
clature of  many  streets  in  the  capitals,  has  been  altered 
and  the  word  "commander"  substituted  for  "officer. " 
When  we  were  alone  I  did  not  say  "Comrade  Com- 
mander" (unless  facetiously)  but  called  him  "Vasili 
Petrovitch,"  and  he  addressed  me  also  by  Christian 
name  and   patronymic. 

"Vasili  Petrovitch,"  I  said  one  day,  "what  made 
you  join  the  Red  army?" 

"You  think  we  have  any  option?"  he  retorted.  "If 
an  officer  doesn't  want  to  be  shot  he  either  obeys  the 
mobilization  order  or  flees  from  the  country.  And 
only  those  can  afford  to  take  flight  who  have  no  fam- 
ily to  leave  behind."  He  drew  a  bulky  pocket-book 
from  his  pocket,  and  fumbling  among  the  mass  of 
dirty  and  ragged  documents,  unfolded  a  paper  and 
placed  it  before  me.  "That  is  a  copy  of  a  paper 
I  was  made  to  fill  in  and  sign  before  being  given  a 
Red  commission.  We  all  have  to  sign  it,  and  if  you 
were  discovered  here  I  should  have  signed  away  my 
wife's  life  as  well  as  my  own." 

The  paper  was  a  typewritten  blank,  on  which  first 
the  name,  rank  in  the  old  army,  present  rank,  regi- 
ment, abode,  etc.,  had  to  be  filled  in  in  detail.  Then 
followed  a  space  in  which  the  newly  mobilized  officer 
gave  an  exhaustive  list  of  his  relatives,  with  their  ages, 
addresses,  and  occupations;  while  at  the  bottom, followed 
by  a  space  for  signature,  were  the  following  words: 
I  hereby  declare  that  I  am  aware  that  in  the  event  of 
my  disloyalty  to  the  Soviet  Government,  my  relatives 
.shall  be  arrested  and  deported. 

Vasili  Petrovitch  spread  out  his  hands,  shrugging 
bis  shoulders. 


t>  s 


-3 

0) 


The  author  and  the  Colonel  of  the  Polish  Women's  Death 

Battalion  on  the  Polish  front.  August,  1920.  One  week 
later  she  and  her  entire  staff  were  killed  by  the  Reds.  The 
battalion  numbered  250  women 


THE  RED  ARMY  227 

"I  should  prefer  to  see  my  wife  and  my  little 
daughters  shot,"  he  said,  bitterly,  "rather  than  that 
they  be  sent  to  a  Red  concentration  camp.  I  am 
supposed  to  make  my  subordinates  sign  these  declara- 
tions, too.  Pleasant,  isn't  it?  You  know,  I  suppose," 
he  added,  "that  appointment  to  a  post  of  any  responsi- 
bility is  now  made  conditional  upon  having  relatives 
near  at  hand  who  may  be  arrested?"  (This  order 
had  been  published  in  the  press.)  "The  happiest 
thing  nowadays  is  to  be  friendless  and  destitute,  then 
you  cannot  get  your  people  shot.  Or  else  act  on  the 
Bolshevist  principle  that  conscience,  like  liberty,  is  a 
'bourgeois  prejudice.'  Then  you  can  work  for  No.  2 
Gorohovaya  and  make  a  fortune." 

Not  only  my  commander  but  most  of  the  men  in 
my  unit  talked  like  this  amongst  themselves,  only 
quietly,  for  fear  of  Bolshevist  spies.  One  little  fellow 
who  was  drafted  into  the  regiment  was  uncommonly 
outspoken.  He  was  a  mechanic  from  a  factory  on  the 
Yiborg  side  of  the  city.  His  candour  was  such  that  I 
suspected  him  at  first  of  being  a  'provocateur,  paid 
by  the  Bolsheviks  to  speak  ill  of  them  and  thus  unmask 
sympathizers.  But  he  was  not  that  sort.  One  day  I 
overheard  him  telling  the  story  of  how  he  and  his 
fellows  had  been  mobilized. 

"As  soon  as  we  were  mobilized,"  he  said,  "we  were 
chased  to  all  sorts  of  meetings.  Last  Saturday  at  the 
Narodny  Dom  [the  biggest  hall  in  Petrograd]  Zin- 
oviev  spoke  to  us  for  an  hour  and  assured  us  we  were  to 
fight  for  workmen  and  peasants  against  capitalists, 
imperialists,  bankers,  generals,  landlords,  priests,  and 
other  bloodsucking  riff-raff.  Then  he  read  a  resolution 
that  every  Red  soldier  swears  to  defend  Red  Petrograd 


228        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

to  the  last  drop  of  blood,  but  nobody  put  up  his  hand 
except  a  few  in  the  front  rows  who  had,  of  course,  been 
put  there  to  vote  'for.'  Near  me  I  heard  several  men 
growl  and  say,  'Enough !  we  aren't  sheep,  and  we  know 
what  sort  of  freedom  you  want  to  use  us  as  cannon 
fodder  for.'  Son  of  a  gun,  that  Zinoviev!"  ex- 
claimed the  little  man,  spitting  disgustedly;  "next 
day — what  do  you  think? — we  read  in  the  paper  that 
ten  thousand  newly  mobilized  soldiers  had  passed  a 
resolution  unanimously  to  defend  what  Zinoviev  and 
Lenin  call  the  'Workers'  and  Peasants'  Government'!" 
Few  people  ventured  to  be  so  outspoken  as  this, 
for  everybody  feared  the  four  or  five  Communists  who 
were  attached  to  the  regiment  to  eavesdrop  and 
report  any  remarks  detrimental  to  the  Bolsheviks. 
One  of  these  Communists  was  a  Jew,  a  rare  occurrence 
in  the  rank  and  file  of  the  army.  He  disappeared  when 
the  regiment  was  moved  to  the  front,  doubtless  having 
received  another  job  of  a  similar  nature  in  a  safe  spot 
in  the  rear.  The  only  posts  in  the  Red  army  held  in 
any  number  by  Jews  are  the  political  posts  of  com- 
missars. One  reason  why  there  appear  to  be  so  many 
Jews  in  the  Bolshevist  administration  is  that  they 
are  nearly  all  employed  in  the  rear,  particularly  in 
those  departments  (such  as  of  food,  propaganda, 
public  economy)  which  are  not  concerned  in  fighting. 
It  is  largely  to  the  ease  with  which  Jewish  Bolsheviks 
evade  military  service,  and  the  arrogance  some  of 
them  show  toward  the  Russians  whom  they  openly 
despise,  that  the  intense  hatred  of  the  Jew  and  the 
popular  belief  in  Russia  that  Bolshevism  is  a  Jewish 
"put-up"  are  due.  There  are,  of  course,  just  as  many 
Jews  who  oppose  the  Bolsheviks,  and  many  of  these 


THE  RED  ARMY  229 

are  lying  in  prison.  But  this  is  not  widely  known, 
for  like  Russian  anti-Bolsheviks  they  have  no  means 
of  expressing  their  opinions. 


Leo  Bronstein,  the  genius  of  the  Red  army,  now 
universally  known  by  his  more  Russian-sounding 
pseudonym  of  Trotzky,  is  the  second  of  the  triumvi- 
rate of  "Lenin,  Trotzky,  and  Zinoviev,"  who  guide 
the  destinies  of  the  Russian  and  the  World  revolution. 
That  the  accepted  order  of  precedence  is  not  "Trotzky, 
Lenin,  and  Zinoviev"  must  be  gall  and  wormwood  to 
Trotzky 's  soul.  His  first  outstanding  characteristic 
is  overweening  ambition;  his  second — egoism;  his 
third — cruelty;  and  all  three  are  sharpened  by  intel- 
ligence and  wit  of  unusual  brilliancy.  According 
to  his  intimate  associates  of  former  days,  his  nature 
is  by  no  means  devoid  of  cordiality,  but  his  affections 
are  completely  subordinated  to  the  promotion  of 
his  ambitious  personal  designs,  and  he  casts  off  friends 
and  relatives  alike,  as  he  would  clothing,  the  moment 
they  have  served  his  purpose. 

A  schoolmate,  prison-companion,  and  political  col- 
league of  Trotzky,  Dr.  Ziv,  who  for  years  shared 
his  labours  both  openly  and  secretly,  travelled  with 
him  to  exile,  and  was  associated  with  him  also  in 
New  York,  thus  sums  up  his  character: 

"In  Trotzky 's  psychology  there  are  no  elements 
corresponding  to  the  ordinary  conceptions  of  brutal- 
ity or  humanity.  In  place  of  these  there  is  a  blank  . 
.  .  Men,  for  him,  are  mere  units — hundreds,  thous- 
ands, and  hundreds  of  thousands  of  units — by  means 
of  which  he  may  satisfy  his  Wille  zur  Macht,    Whether 


230        RED  DUSK  AXD  THE  MORROW 

this  end  is  to  be  achieved  by  securing  for  those  multi- 
tudes conditions  of  supreme  happiness  or  by  merci- 
lessly crushing  or  exterminating  them,  is  for  Trotzky 
an  unessential  detail,  to  be  determined  not  by  sym- 
pathies or  antipathies  but  by  the  accidental  circum- 
stances of  the  moment."* 

The  same  writer  throws  some  interesting  light  on 
how  Bronstein  chose  his  pseudonym.  His  present 
assumed  name  of  "Trotzky"  was  that  of  the  senior 
jailer  of  the  Tsarist  prison-house  at  Odessa,  where 
Bronstein  and  Dr.  Ziv  were  incarcerated.  The  latter 
describes  this  jailer  as  "a  majestic  figure,  leaning 
on  his  long  sabre  and  with  the  eagle  eye  of  a  field- 
marshal  surveying  his  domain  and  feeling  himself 
a  little  tsar."f  The  motive  impelling  Trotzky  to  use 
a  pseudonym  is  peculiar.  "To  call  himself  Bron- 
stein would  be  once  and  for  all  to  attach  to  himself 
the  hated  label  designating  his  Jewish  origin,  and  this 
was  the  very  thing  that  he  desired  everyone  to  forget 
as  quickly  and  thoroughly  as  possible."  This  esti- 
mation is  the  more  valuable  in  that  the  writer,  Dr.  Ziv, 
is  himself  a  Jew. 

The  creation  and  control  of  a  huge  militarist  machine 
has  hitherto  afforded  full  and  ample  scope  for  the  exercise 
of  Trotzky 's  superhuman  energy  and  indomitable  will. 
Regarding  the  Russian  peasants  and  workers  as  cattle 
and  treating  them  as  such,  he  naturally  strove  at  an 
early  date,  by  coercion  or  by  flattering  and  alluring 
inducements,  to  persuade  the  trained  Tsarist  officer 
staff,  with  whose  technical  knowledge  he  could  not 
dispense,  to  serve  the  Red  flag.     The  ideas  of  a  "demo- 

♦Trotzky,  by  Dr.  G.  A.  Ziv,  New  York  "Xarodopravsto,"  1921,  p.  93. 
\lbid,  p.  26. 


THE  RED  ARMY  231 

cratic  army"  and  "the  arming  of  the  entire  proletariat" 
the  demand  for  which,  together  with  that  for  the 
constituent  assembly,  had  served  to  bring  Trotzky 
and  his  associates  to  power,  were  discarded  the  moment 
they  had  served  their  purpose. 

The  same  measures  were  introduced  to  combat 
wholesale  robbery  and  pillage — an  inevitable  phenome- 
non resulting  from  Bolshevist  agitation — as  were 
employed  by  the  Tsarist  army,  and  with  even  greater 
severity.  Soldiers'  committees  were  soon  suppressed. 
The  "revolutionary"  commanders  of  1918,  untrained 
and  unqualified  for  leadership,  were  dismissed  and 
supplanted  by  "specialists" — that  is,  officers  of  the 
Tsarist  army,  closely  watched,  however,  by  carefully 
selected  Communists. 

The  strength  of  the  Red  army  now  undoubtedly 
lies  in  its  officer  staff.  As  the  indispensability  of 
expert  military  knowledge  became  more  and  more 
apparent,  the  official  attitude  toward  Tsarist  officers, 
which  was  one  of  contempt  and  hostility  as  bourgeois, 
became  tempered  with  an  obvious  desire  to  conciliate. 
The  curious  phenomenon  was  observable  of  a  ribald 
Red  press,  still  pandering  to  mob-instincts,  denounc- 
ing all  Tsarist  officers  as  "counter-revolutionary  swine," 
while  at  the  same  time  Trotzky,  in  secret,  was  tenta- 
tively extending  the  olive  branch  to  these  same  "swine," 
and  addressing  them  in  tones  of  conciliation  and  even 
respect.  Officers  were  told  that  it  was  fully  understood 
that,  belonging  to  "the  old  school,"  they  could  not 
readily  acquiesce  in  all  the  innovations  of  the  "pro- 
letarian" regime,  that  it  was  hoped  in  course  of  time 
they  would  come  to  adapt  themselves  to  it,  and  that 
if  in  the  meantime  they  would  "give  their  knowledge 


232        RED  DUSK  AXD  THE  MORROW 

to  the  revolution"  their  services  would  be  duly  recog- 
nized. 

"We  found  it  difficult  to  believe  it  was  Trotzky 
talking  to  us,"  an  officer  said  to  me  after  the  extra- 
ordinary meeting  of  commissars  and  naval  special- 
ists of  the  Baltic  fleet,  at  which  Trotzky  abolished 
the  committee  system  and  restored  the  officers'  author- 
ity. My  friend  participated  at  the  meeting,  being  a 
high  official  in  the  admiralty.  "We  all  sat  round  the 
table  in  expectation,  officers  at  one  end  and  the  Com- 
munist commissars  at  the  other.  The  officers  were 
silent,  for  we  did  not  know  why  we  had  been  called, 
but  the  commissars,  all  dressed  in  leathern  jerkins, 
sprawled  in  the  best  chairs,  smoking  and  spitting,  and 
laughing  loudly.  Suddenly  the  door  opened  and 
Trotzky  entered.  I  had  never  seen  him  before  and 
was  quite  taken  aback.  He  was  dressed  in  the  full 
uniform  of  a  Russian  officer  with  the  sole  exception 
of  epaulettes.  The  dress  did  not  suit  him,  but  he 
held  himself  erect  and  leaderlike,  and  when  we  all 
stood  to  receive  him  the  contrast  between  him  and 
the  commissars,  whom  he  himself  had  appointed, 
was  striking.  When  he  spoke  we  were  thunder- 
struck— and  so  were  the  commissars — for  turning 
to  our  end  of  the  table  he  addressed  us  not  as  'Com- 
rades' but  as  'Gentlemen,'  thanked  us  for  our  services, 
and  assured  us  he  understood  the  difficulties,  both 
moral  and  physical,  of  our  situation.  Then  he  suddenly 
turned  on  the  commissars  and  to  our  amazement 
poured  forth  a  torrent  of  abuse  just  such  as  we  are 
accustomed  nowadays  to  hear  directed  against  our- 
selves. He  called  them  .skulking  slackers,  demanded 
to  know  why  they  dared  sit  in  his  presence  with  their 


THE  RED  ARMY  233 

jerkins  all  unbuttoned,  and  made  them  all  cringe  like 
dogs.  He  told  us  that  the  ship  committees  were 
abolished;  that  thenceforward  the  commissars  were 
to  have  powers  only  of  political  control,  but  none  in 
purely  naval  matters.  We  were  so  dumbfounded 
that  I  believe,  if  Trotzky  were  not  a  Jew,  the  officers 
would  follow  him  to  a  man!" 

The  position  of  officers  was  grievous  indeed,  especially 
of  such  as  had  wives  and  families.  Flight  with  their 
families  was  difficult,  while  flight  without  their  families 
led  to  the  arrest  of  the  latter  the  moment  the  officer's 
absence  was  noted.  Remaining  in  the  country  their 
position  was  no  better.  Evasion  of  mobilization  or  a 
default  in  service  alike  led  to  reprisals  against  their 
kith  and  kin.  Trotzky's  approaches  were  not  an  effort 
to  make  them  serve — that  was  unavoidable — but  to 
induce  them  to  serve  well.  Alone  his  persuasions 
might  have  availed  little.  But  with  the  passage  of  time 
the  bitter  disappointment  at  continued  White  fail- 
ures, and  growing  disgust  at  the  effect  of  Allied  inter- 
vention, coming  on  top  of  constant  terror,  drove  many 
to  desperate  and  some  to  genuine  service  in  the  Red 
ranks,  believing  that  only  with  the  conclusion  of  war 
(irrespective  of  defeat  or  victory)  could  the  existing  re- 
gime be  altered.  I  believe  that  the  number  of  those 
who  are  genuinely  serving,  under  a  conviction  that  the 
present  order  of  things  is  a  mere  passing  phase,  is  con- 
siderably larger  than  is  generally  supposed  outside 
Russia. 

One  of  the  most  pitiable  sights  I  have  ever  witnessed 
was  the  arrest  of  women  as  hostages  because  their  men- 
folk were  suspected  of  anti-Bolshevist  activities.  One 
party  of  such  prisoners  I  remember  particularly  because 


234        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

I  knew  one  or  two  of  the  people  in  it.  They  were  all 
ladies,  with  the  stamp  of  education  and  refinement — 
and  untold  suffering — on  their  faces,  accompanied  by 
three  or  four  children,  who  I  presume  had  refused  to  be 
torn  away.  In  the  hot  summer  sun  they  tracked 
through  the  streets,  attired  in  the  remnants  of  good 
clothing,  with  shoes  out  at  heel,  carrying  bags  or  parcels 
of  such  belongings  as  they  were  permitted  to  take  with 
them  to  prison.  Suddenly  one  of  the  women  swooned 
and  fell.  The  little  party  halted.  The  invalid  was 
helped  to  a  seat  by  her  companions,  while  the  escort  stood 
and  looked  on  as  if  bored  with  the  whole  business.  The 
guards  did  not  look  vicious,  and  were  only  obeying  orders. 
When  the  party  moved  forward  one  of  them  carried  the 
lady's  bag.  Standing  beneath  the  trees  of  the  Alexander 
Garden  I  watched  the  pitiful  procession,  despair  im- 
printed on  every  face,  trudge  slowly  across  the  road  and 
disappear  into  the  dark  aperture  of  No.  2  Gorohovaya. 

Meanwhile  their  husbands  and  sons  were  informed 
that  a  single  conspicuous  deed  on  their  part  against  the 
White  or  counter-revolutionary  armies  would  be 
sufficient  to  secure  the  release  of  their  womenfolk,  while 
continued  good  service  would  guarantee  them  not  only 
personal  freedom,  but  increased  rations  and  non-moles- 
tation in  their  domiciles.  This  last  means  a  great  deal 
when  workmen  or  soldiers  may  be  thrust  upon  you 
without  notice  at  any  time,  occupying  your  best  rooms, 
while  you  and  your  family  are  compelled  to  retire  to  a 
single  chamber,  perhaps  only  the  kitchen. 

Such  duress  against  officers  showed  an  astute  under- 
standing of  the  psychology  of  the  White  armies.  A 
single  conspicuous  deed  for  the  Bolsheviks  by  an  officer 
of  the  old  army  was  sufficient  to  damn  that  officer  for 


THE  RED  ARMY  235 

ever  in  the  eyes  of  the  Whites,  who  appeared  to  have  no 
consideration  for  the  sore  and  often  hopeless  position  in 
which  those  officers  were  placed.  It  was  this  that 
troubled  my  commander  after  his  accidental  destruc- 
tion of  the  right  bridge.  I  am  told  that  General  Brusi- 
lov's  son  was  shot  by  Denikin's  army  solely  because  he 
was  found  in  the  service  of  the  Reds.  The  stupidity  of 
such  conduct  on  the  part  of  the  Whites  would  be  in- 
conceivable were  it  not  a  fact. 

The  complete  absence  of  an  acceptable  programme 
alternative  to  Bolshevism,  the  audibly  whispered  threats 
of  landlords  that  in  the  event  of  a  White  victory  the 
land  seized  by  the  peasants  should  be  restored  to  its 
former  owners,  and  the  lamentable  failure  to  understand 
that  in  the  anti-Bolshevist  war  politics  and  not  military 
strategy  must  play  the  dominant  role,  were  the  chief 
causes  of  the  White  defeats.  This  theory  is  borne  out 
by  all  the  various  White  adventures,  whether  of  Kol- 
chak,  Denikin,  or  Wrangel,  the  course  of  each  being, 
broadly  speaking,  the  same.  First  the  Whites  advanced 
triumphantly,  and  until  the  character  of  their  regime 
was  realized  they  were  hailed  as  deliverers  from  the 
Red  yoke.  The  Red  soldiers  deserted  to  them  in  hordes 
and  the  Red  command  was  thrown  into  consternation. 
There  was  very  little  fighting  considering  the  vast 
extent  of  front.  Then  came  a  halt,  due  to  incipient 
disaffection  amongst  the  civil  population  in  the  rear. 
Requisitioning,  mobilization,  internecine  strife,  and 
corruption  amongst  officials,  differing  but  little  from  the 
regime  of  the  Reds,  rapidly  alienated  the  sympathies  of 
the  peasantry,  who  revolted  against  the  Whites  as  they 
had  against  the  Reds,  and  the  position  of  the  White 
armies  was  made  untenable.     The  first  sign  of  yielding 


236        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

at  the  front  was  the  signal  for  a  complete  reversal  of 
fortune.  In  some  cases  this  process  was  repeated  more 
than  once,  the  final  result  being  a  determination  on 
the  part  of  the  peasantry  to  hold  their  own  against 
Red  and  White  alike. 

Most  Russian  emigres  now  admit  not  only  that  war- 
ring against  the  so-called  Soviet  Republic  has  served 
above  all  else  to  consolidate  the  position  of  the  Bolshe- 
vist leaders,  but  also  that  the  failure  of  the  anti- 
Bolsheviks  was  due  largely  to  their  own  deficient  ad- 
ministration. But  there  are  many  who  continue  to  lay 
the  blame  on  anyone's  shoulders  rather  than  their  own, 
and  primarily  upon  England — a  reproach  which  is  not 
entirely  unjustified,  though  not  for  quite  the  same 
reason  as  these  critics  suppose.  For  while  the  Allies  and 
America  all  participated  in  military  intervention,  it 
was  England  who  for  the  longest  time,  and  at  greatest 
cost  to  herself,  furnished  the  counter-revolution  with 
funds  and  material.  Her  error  and  that  of  her  associates 
lay  in  making  no  effort  to  control  the  political,  i.  e.,  the 
most  important,  aspect  of  the  counter-revolution. 
England  appeared  to  assume  that  the  moral  integrity  of 
Kolchak,  Denikin,  and  Wrangel,  which  has  never  been 
called  in  question  by  any  serious  people,  was  a  gauge 
of  the  political  maturity  of  these  leaders  and  of  the  gov- 
ernments they  brought  into  being.  Herein  lay  the 
fundamental  misjudgment  of  the  situation.  The  gulf 
that  yawns  between  the  White  leaders  and  the  peasan- 
try is  as  wide  as  that  between  the  Communist  party 
and  the  Russian  people.  Not  in  Moscow,  but  in  the 
camps  of  the  White  leaders  were  sown  the  seeds  of  the 
disasters  that  befell  them,  and  this  was  apparent  neither 
to  England  nor  to  any  other  foreign  power. 


THE  RED  ARMY  237 

By  the  end  of  1919  the  higher  military  posts  in  the 
Red  army,  such  as  those  of  divisional-,  artillery-,  and 
brigade-commanders,  were  held  almost  exclusively  by 
former  Tsarist  generals  and  colonels.  The  Bolsheviks 
are  extremely  proud  of  this  fact,  and  frequently  boast 
of  it  to  their  visitors.  These  officers  are  treated  with 
deference,  though  as  known  anti-Bolsheviks  they  are 
closely  watched,  and  their  families  are  granted  consider- 
able privileges. 

In  lower  ranks  there  is  a  predominance  of  "Red" 
officers,  turned  out  from  the  Red  cadet  schools  where 
they  are  instructed  by  Tsarist  officers.  Few  of  the  Red 
cadets  are  men  of  education.  They  are,  however,  on 
the  whole,  strong  supporters  of  the  soviet  regime.  But 
civilians  and  even  private  soldiers  also  find  their  way  by 
good  service  to  positions  of  high  responsibility,  for  the 
Red  army  offers  a  field  for  advancement  not,  as  in  the 
White  armies,  according  to  rank,  "blood,"  or  social 
standing,  but  primarily  for  talent  and  service.  Merit  is 
the  only  accepted  standard  for  promotion.  Common 
soldiers  have  become  expert  regimental  commanders, 
artillery  officers,  and  cavalry  leaders.  In  many  cases 
the  formerly  unknown  opportunities  which  are  now 
offered  them  make  of  such  people  convinced  supporters 
of  the  present  regime,  of  whose  courage  and  determina- 
tion there  can  be  no  doubt.  Granted  that  the  individ- 
ual, whatever  his  real  political  convictions,  signs  on  as  a 
member  of  the  Communist  party,  any  clever  adventurer 
who  devotes  his  talent  to  the  Red  army  can  rise  to  great 
heights  and  make  for  himself  a  brilliant  career.  Had 
the  Russian  people  really  been  fired  by  revolutionary 
enthusiasm  or  devotion  to  their  present  rulers,  the  Red 
army  would,  under  the  system  introduced  by  Trotzky, 


238        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

have  rapidly  become  not  merely  a  formidable  but  an 
absolutely  irresistible  military  force. 


But  the  Russian  people  are  not  and  never  will  be  fired 
by  enthusiasm  for  the  Communist  revolution.  As  long 
as  the  White  armies  were  permeated  by  the  landlord 
spirit  there  was  indeed  an  incentive  to  defend  the  land, 
an  incentive  exploited  to  the  full  by  the  Bolsheviks  in 
their  own  favour.  I  witnessed  a  striking  instance  of 
this  on  the  northwest  front.  One  of  the  generals  of  the 
WTiite  army  operating  against  Petrograd  issued  an  order 
to  the  peasant  population  to  the  effect  that  "this  year 
the  produce  of  the  land  might  be  reaped  and  sold  by 
those  who  had  sown  and  tilled  it  [that  is,  by  the  peas- 
ants who  had  seized  it],  but  next  year  the  land  must  be 
restored  to  its  rightful  owners  [that  is,  the  former 
landlords]."  Needless  to  say,  the  effect  was  suicidal, 
although  this  same  general  had  been  welcomed  upon  his 
advance  three  weeks  before  with  unprecedented  rejoic- 
ings. Moreover,  this  particular  order  was  republished 
by  the  Bolsheviks  in  every  paper  in  Soviet  Russia  and 
served  as  powerful  propaganda  amongst  the  peasant 
soldiers  on  every  front. 

In  November,  1920, 1  talked  to  soldiers  fresh  from  the 
Red  ranks  in  the  northern  Ukraine.  I  found  peasants, 
who  were  willing  enough  to  join  insurgents,  feared  to 
desert  to  Wrangel's  army.  Asked  why  they  had  not 
deserted  on  the  southern  front,  they  replied  with  deci- 
sion and  in  surprising  unison:  " Rangelya  baimsya"', 
which  was  their  way  of  saying:  "We  are  afraid  of  Wran- 
gel."  And  this  in  spite  of  Wrangel's  much-vaunted 
land  law,  which  promised  the  land  to  the  peasants. 


THE  RED  ARMY  239 

But  behind  Wrangel  they  knew  there  stood  the  land- 
lords. 

But  the  first  campaign  of  the  Red  army  against  a  non- 
Russian  foe,  Poland,  which  did  not  threaten  the  peas- 
ants' possession  of  the  land,  resulted  in  complete  collapse 
at  the  very  height  of  Red  power.  And  this  is  the  more 
significant  in  that  quite  an  appreciable  degree  of  anti- 
Polish  national  feeling  was  aroused  in  Russia,  especially 
amongst  educated  people,  and  was  exploited  by  the 
Bolsheviks  to  strengthen  their  own  position.  But  there 
was  one  striking  difference  between  the  Red  and  the 
Polish  armies,  which  largely  accounted  for  the  outcome 
of  the  war.  Badly  officered  as  the  Poles  were  by  in- 
competent, selfish,  or  corrupt  officers,  the  rank  and  file 
of  the  Polish  army  was  fired  even  in  adversity  by  a  spirit 
of  national  patriotism  unseen  in  Europe  since  the 
first  days  of  the  Great  War.  It  only  required  the  draft- 
ing in  of  a  few  French  officers,  and  the  merciless  weeding 
out  of  traitors  from  the  Polish  staff,  to  make  of  the 
Polish  army  the  formidable  weapon  that  swept  the  Red 
hordes  like  chaff  before  it.  In  the  Red  army,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  situation  was  precisely  the  reverse. 
The  Reds  were  officered  by  commanders  who  were  either 
inspired  by  anti-Polish  sentiment,  or  believed,  as  the 
Communist  leaders  assured  them,  that  the  revolution- 
ary armies  were  to  sweep  right  across  Europe.  But  the 
rank  and  file  were  devoid  of  all  interest  in  the  war. 
Thus  they  only  advanced  as  long  as  the  wretchedly  led 
Poles  retreated  too  rapidly  to  be  caught  up,  and  the 
moment  they  met  organized  resistance  the  Russian 
peasants  either  fled,  deserted,  or  mutinied  in  their  own 
ranks. 

The  Polish  victory  effectually  dispelled  the  myths  of 


240        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

peasant  support  of  the  revolution  and  the  invincibility 
of  the  Red  army,  but  beyond  that  it  served  no  useful 
purpose  as  far  as  Russia  is  concerned.  Rather  the  con- 
trary, for  by  temporarily  aligning  Russian  intellectuals 
on  the  side  of  the  Communists  it  served  even  more  than 
the  civil  wars  to  consolidate  the  position  of  the  Soviet 
Government. 

The  terror  that  prevails  in  the  Red  army,  and  which  is, 
when  all  is  said  and  done,  the  measure  most  relied  upon 
by  the  Soviet  Government  to  ensure  discipline,  leads 
at  times  to  extraordinary  and  apparently  inexplicable 
episodes.  In  September,  1920, 1  witnessed  the  retaking 
of  the  fortress  of  Grodno  by  the  Poles.  As  I  watched 
the  shells  falling  over  the  trenches  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  town  I  thought  of  the  wretches  lying  in  them,  hating 
the  war,  hating  their  leaders,  and  merely  waiting  till 
nightfall  to  creep  out  of  the  city.  Though  it  was  said  that 
Grodno  was  defended  by  some  of  the  best  Red  regiments 
the  retreat  was  precipitate.  But  a  day  or  two  later 
near  Lida  they  unexpectedly  turned  and  gave  battle. 
Trotzky  was,  or  had  recently  been  in  that  sector,  and 
had  ordered  that  ruthless  measures  be  taken  to  stay  the 
flight.  One  Polish  division  was  suddenly  attacked  by 
five  Red  divisions.  Four  of  the  latter  were  beaten,  but 
the  last,  the  21st,  continued  to  fight  with  savage  fury. 
Three  times  they  bore  down  in  massed  formation.  It 
came  to  a  hand-to-hand  fight  in  which  the  Poles  were 
hard  pressed.  But  after  the  third  attack,  which  for- 
tunately for  the  Poles  was  weaker,  an  entirely  unfore- 
seen and  incomprehensible  event  occurred.  The  sol- 
diers of  the  21st  Soviet  division  killed  every  one  of  their 
commissars  and  Communists  and  came  over  to  the 
Poles  in  a  body  with  their  guns! 


THE  RED  ARMY  241 

It  would  seem  at  such  times  as  if  conscious  human 
intelligence  were  completely  numbed.  Impelled  by 
despair,  people  act  like  automatons,  regardless  of  dan- 
ger, knowing  that  worse  things  await  them  (and  espe- 
cially their  kith  and  kin)  if  they  are  detected  in  at- 
tempted disloyalty.  People  may,  by  terror,  be  made 
to  fight  desperately  for  a  thing  they  do  not  believe  in, 
but  there  comes  after  all  a  breaking  point. 


The  organs  of  terror  in  the  army  are  Special  Depart- 
ments of  the  Extraordinary  Commission,  and  Revolu- 
tionary Tribunals.  The  methods  of  the  Extraordinary 
Commission  have  been  described.  In  the  army  to 
which  my  regiment  belonged  the  order  for  the  for- 
mation of  revolutionary  tribunals  stated  that  they 
"  are  to  be  established  in  each  brigade  area,  to  consist  of 
three  members,  and  to  carry  out  on  the  spot  verdicts  of 
insubordination,  refusal  to  fight,  flight  or  desertion  by 
complete  units,  such  as  sections,  platoons,  companies, 
etc."  Sentences  (to  death  inclusively)  were  to  be 
executed  immediately.  Verdicts  might  also  be  condi- 
tional, that  is,  guilty  units  might  be  granted  an  oppor- 
tunity to  restore  confidence  in  themselves  by  heroic 
conduct  and  thus  secure  a  reversal  of  the  verdict.  At 
the  same  time,  "  separate  specially  reliable  units  are  to 
be  formed  of  individuals  selected  from  steady  units, 
whose  duty  will  be  to  suppress  all  insubordination. 
These  selected  units  will  also  execute  the  sentences  of 
death." 

Desertion  from  the  Red  army  is  not  difficult,  but  if 
one  lives  in  or  near  a  town  one's  relatives  pay.  Deser- 
tion, as  what  the  Bolsheviks  call  a  "mass-phenomenon/* 


242        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

is  combated  by  special  Commissions  for  Combating 
Desertion,  established  in  every  town  and  large  village 
and  at  frontier  points.  The  mere  abundance  of  these 
commissions  is  indicative  of  the  prevalence  of  desertion. 
Their  agents  hang  about  the  outskirts  of  towns,  at  cross- 
roads, frontier  stations,  etc.,  prodding  truckloads  of 
hay  or  looking  under  railroad  cars.  If  the  identity  of 
a  deserter  is  established  but  he  cannot  be  ferreted  out, 
the  property  of  his  relatives  is  confiscated  and  they  are 
liable  to  be  arrested  unless  they  expose  him  or  until 
he  returns  voluntarily. 

The  peasantry  sometimes  try  to  organize  desertion. 
Pickets  are  posted  to  give  warning  of  the  approach  of 
punitive  detachments.  In  Ukrainia,  where  the  peasants 
show  more  vigour  and  capacity  for  self-defence  against 
the  Communists  than  in  the  north,  villagers  organize 
themselves  into  armed  bands  led  by  sub-officers  of  the 
old  army  and  effectively  hold  the  punitive  detachments 
at  bay  for  considerable  periods. 

The  mobilization  of  peasants  is  at  times  so  difficult  a 
procedure  that  when  a  regiment  has  been  gathered  it  is 
often  sent  down  to  the  front  in  sealed  cars.  Arms  are 
rarely  distributed  until  the  moment  to  enter  the  fray, 
when  a  machine  gun  is  placed  behind  the  raw  troops, 
and  they  are  warned  that  they  have  the  option  either  of 
advancing  or  being  fired  on  from  the  rear.  At  the  same 
time  provincial  districts  are  cautioned  that  every  village 
in  which  a  single  deserter  is  discovered  will  be  burned 
to  the  ground.  However,  though  several  such  orders 
have  been  published,  I  do  not  know  of  a  case  in  which 
the  threat  has  been  put  into  execution. 

Mobilization  of  town-workers  is  naturally  easier,  but 
here  also  subterfuge  has  sometimes  to  be  resorted  to. 


THE  RED  ARMY  243 

In  Petrograd  I  witnessed  what  was  announced  to  be  a 
"trial"  mobilization;  that  is,  the  workers  were  assured 
that  they  were  not  going  to  the  front  and  that  the  trial 
was  only  to  be  practice  for  an  emergency.  The  result  was 
that  the  prospective  recruits,  glad  of  an  extra  holiday 
plus  the  additional  bread  ration  issued  on  such  occasions, 
turned  up  in  force  (all,  of  course,  in  civilian  clothes) 
and  the  trial  mobilization  was  a  great  success.  A  por- 
tion of  the  recruits  were  taken  to  the  Nicholas  Station 
and  told  they  were  going  out  of  town  to  manoeuvre.  Im- 
agine their  feelings  when  they  discovered  that  they  were 
locked  into  the  cars,  promptly  despatched  to  the  front, 
and  (still  in  civilian  clothes)  thrust  straight  into  the 
firing  line! 

Every  Red  army  man  is  supposed  to  have  taken  the 
following  oath; 

I,  a  member  of  a  labouring  people  and  citizen  of  the 
Soviet  Republic,  assume  the  name  of  warrior  of  the 
Workers'  and  Peasants'  Army.  Before  the  labouring 
classes  of  Russia  and  of  the  whole  world  I  pledge  my- 
self to  bear  this  title  with  honour,  conscientiously  to 
study  the  science  of  war,  and  as  the  apple  of  my  eye 
defend  civil  and  military  property  from  spoliation  and 
pillage.  I  pledge  myself  strictly  and  unswervingly  to 
observe  revolutionary  discipline  and  perform  unhesi- 
tatingly all  orders  of  the  commanders  appointed  by 
the  Workers'  and  Peasants'  Government.  I  pledge 
myself  to  refrain  and  to  restrain  my  comrades  from 
any  action  that  may  stain  and  lower  the  dignity  of  a 
citizen  of  the  Soviet  Republic,  and  to  direct  my  best 
efforts  to  the  sole  object  of  the  emancipation  of  all 
workers.  I  pledge  myself  at  the  first  call  of  the 
Workers'  and  Peasant"'  Government  to  defend  the 


244        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

Soviet  Republic  from  all  dangers  and  assault  on  tins 
part  of  her  foes,  and  to  spare  neither  my  energies  nor 
life  in  the  struggle  for  the  Russian  Soviet  Republic, 
for  the  cause  of  Socialism  and  the  fraternity  of  peoples. 
If  with  evil  intent  I  infringe  this  my  solemn  oath  may 
my  lot  be  universal  contempt  and  may  I  fall  a  victim 
to  the  ruthless  arm  of  revolutionary  law. 
Very  few  Red  army  men  have  any  recollection  of  hav- 
ing taken  this  oath,  which  is  reserved  for  officers  or  for 
propagandist  purposes.     If  it  is  taken  by  the  common 
soldiers  at  all  it  is  read  out  to  whole  battalions  at  a  time 
and  they  are  told  when  to  raise  their  hands. 

The  method  of  administering  justice  followed  by  the 
Revolutionary  Tribunals  is  primitive.  The  judges  are 
guided  by  no  rules,  instructions,  or  laws,  but  solely  by 
what  is  known  as  "revolutionary  conscience."  The 
fact  that  the  judges  are  often  illiterate  does  not  affect 
the  performance  of  their  functions,  for  since  none  but 
ardent  Communists  are  admitted  to  these  posts,  their 
revolutionary  consciences  are  ipso  facio  bound  always 
to  be  clear. 

The  malpractices  of  these  courts  reached  such  a  pitch 
that  late  in  1920  the  Bolsheviks,  after  abolishing  all 
jurisprudence  at  the  universities,  were  actually  combing 
out  from  the  ranks  of  the  army  all  such  as  had  technical 
knowledge  of  Tsarist  law,  offering  them  posts  as  legal 
"specialists,"  as  had  already  been  done  with  military, 
industrial,  and  agricultural  experts. 

The  Bolsheviks  discriminate  minutely  between  their 
regiments,  which  are  classed  as  reliable,  semi-reliable, 
and  doubtful.  The  backbone  of  the  army  is  composed 
of  regiments  which  consist  purely  of  convinced  Com- 
munists.    These  units,  called  by  such  names  as  the 


THE  RED  ARMY  245 

"Iron  Regiment,"  the  "Death  Regiment,"  the  "Trot- 
zky  Regiment,"  etc.,  have  acted  up  to  their  names  and 
fight  with  desperate  ferocity.  Reliance  is  also  placed 
in  non-Russian  regiments,  Lettish,  Bashkir,  Chinese 
troops,  etc.,  though  their  numbers  are  not  large.  The 
total  number  of  Communists  being  exceedingly  small, 
they  are  divided  up  and  distributed  amongst  the  re- 
maining regiments  in  little  groups  called  "cells."  The 
size  of  a  cell  averages  about  10  per  cent,  of  the  regiment. 
It  is  this  political  organization  of  the  Red  army  for  pur- 
poses of  propaganda  and  political  control  which  is  its 
most  interesting  feature,  distinguishing  it  from  all  other 
armies.  Isolated  as  the  soldiers  are  from  their  homes, 
unhabituated  in  many  cases  by  nearly  seven  years  of 
war  from  normal  occupations,  and  provisioned  visibly 
better  than  civilians,  it  is  felt  that  under  military  condi- 
tions the  peasant  will  be  most  susceptible  to  Communist 
propaganda. 

The  system  of  political  control  is  as  follows.  Side 
by  side  with  the  hierarchy  of  military  commanders  there 
exists  a  corresponding  hierarchy  of  members  of  the 
Communist  party,  small  numerically,  but  endowed  with 
far-reaching  powers  of  supervision.  These  branches  of 
the  Communist  party  extend  tentacularly  to  the  small- 
est unit  of  the  army,  and  not  a  single  soldier  is  exempt 
from  the  omnipresent  Communist  eye.  The  responsible 
Communist  official  in  a  regiment  is  called  the  Commis- 
sar, the  others  are  called  "political  workers,"  and  con- 
stitute the  "cell."  In  my  own  unit,  numbering  nearly 
200  men,  there  were  never  more  than  half  a  dozen  Com- 
munists or  "political  workers,"  and  they  were  regarded 
with  hatred  and  disgust  by  the  others.  Their  chief  duty 
obviously  was  to  eavesdrop  and  report  suspicious  re- 


246        RED  DUSK  AXD  THE  MORROW 

marks,  but  their  efforts  were  crowned  with  no  great 
success  because  the  commissar,  to  whom  the  Commun- 
ists reported,  was  a  sham  Communist  himself  and  a 
personal  friend  of  my  commander. 

In  other  regiments  in  Petrograd  with  which  I  was  in 
touch  it  was  different.  I  particularly  remember  one 
commissar,  formerly  a  locksmith  by  trade.  He  had 
had  an  elementary  education  and  was  distinguished  by 
a  strange  combination  of  three  marked  traits:  he  was 
an  ardent  Communist,  he  was  conspicuously  honest, 
and  he  was  an  inveterate  toper.  I  will  refer  to  him  as 
comrade  Morozov.  Knowing  that  drunkenness  was 
scheduled  as  a  "crime  unworthy  of  a  Communist," 
Morozov  tried  to  cure  himself  of  it,  a  feat  which  should 
not  have  been  difficult  considering  that  vodka  has  been 
almost  unobtainable  ever  since  the  Tsar  prohibited  its 
production  and  sale  at  the  beginning  of  the  Great  War. 
But  Morozov  nevertheless  fell  to  vodka  every  time  there 
was  a  chance.  On  the  occasion  of  the  wedding  of  a 
friend  of  his  who  was  a  speculator  (and  a  genuine  specu- 
lator) in  foodstuffs,  he  invited  two  or  three  regimental 
companions,  one  of  whom  I  knew  well,  to  the  feast. 
Although  Petrograd  was  starving,  there  was  such  an 
abundance  of  good  things  at  this  repast  and  such  a 
variety  of  wines  and  spirits,  extracted  from  cellars 
known  only  to  superior  "speculators"  who  supplied 
important  people  like  commissars,  that  it  lasted  not 
only  one  night,  but  was  continued  on  the  morrow. 
Morozov  disappeared  from  his  regiment  for  three  whole 
days  and  would  undoubtedly  have  lost  his  post  and,  in 
the  event  of  the  full  truth  leaking  out,  have  been  shot, 
had  not  his  friends  sworn  he  had  had  an  accident. 

Yet  Morozov  could  not  have  been  bribed  by  money, 


THE  RED  ARMY  247 

and  would  have  conscientiously  exposed  any  "specula- 
tor" he  found  in  his  regiment.  He  was  thoroughly 
contrite  after  the  episode  of  the  marriage-feast.  But  it 
was  not  the  wanton  waste  of  foodstuffs  that  stirred  his 
conscience,  nor  his  connivance  and  participation  in  the 
revels  of  a  "speculator,"  but  the  fact  that  he  had  failed 
in  his  duty  to  his  regiment  and  had  only  saved  his  skin 
by  dissembling.  His  sense  of  fairness  was  remarkable 
for  a  Communist.  At  the  elections  to  the  Petrograd 
Soviet  to  which  he  was  a  candidate  for  his  regiment,  he 
not  only  permitted  but  positively  insisted  that  the  vot- 
ing be  by  secret  ballot — the  only  case  of  secret  voting 
that  I  heard  of.  The  result  was  that  he  was  genuinely 
elected  by  a  large  majority,  for  apart  from  this  quite 
unusual  fairness  he  was  fond  of  his  soldiers  and  conse- 
quently popular.  His  intelligence  was  rudimentary  and 
may  be  described  as  crudely  locksmithian.  An  eddy 
of  fortune  had  swept  him  to  his  present  pinnacle  of 
power,  and  judging  others  by  himself  he  imagined  the 
soviet  regime  was  doing  for  everyone  what  it  had  done 
for  him.  Possessing  no  little  heart  but  very  little 
mind,  he  found  considerable  difficulty  in  reconciling  the 
ruthless  attitude  of  the  Communists  toward  the  people 
with  his  own  more  warm-hearted  inclinations,  but  the 
usual  Jesuitical  argument  served  to  still  any  inner  ques- 
tionings— namely,  that  since  the  Communists  alone  were 
right,  all  dissentients  must  be  "enemies  of  the  State" 
and  he  was  in  duty  bound  to  treat  them  as  such. 

During  the  six  or  eight  weeks  that  I  had  the  oppor- 
tunity to  study  the  figure  of  Morozov  after  his  appoint- 
ment as  regimental  commissar,  a  perceptible  change 
came  over  him.  He  grew  suspicious  and  less  frank  and 
outspoken.     Though  he  would  scarcely  have  been  able 


248        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

to  formulate  his  thoughts  in  words,  it  was  clear  that  the 
severity  with  which  any  criticism,  even  by  Communists, 
of  political  commands  from  above  was  deprecated,  and 
the  rigid  enforcement  within  and  without  the  party  of 
iron  discipline,  differed  greatly  from  the  prospect  of 
proletarian  brotherhood  which  he  had  pictured  to  him- 
self. At  the  same  time  he  could  not  escape  from  these 
shackles  except  by  becoming  an  "enemy  of  the  State," 
and,  like  all  Communists,  he  finally  attributed  the  non- 
realization  of  his  dreams  to  the  insidious  machinations 
of  the  scapegoats  designated  by  his  superiors,  namely, 
to  the  non-Bolshevist  Socialists,  the  Mensheviks  and 
Socialist-Revolutionaries,  who  must  be  exterminated 
wholesale. 

Morozov's  responsibilities,  like  those  of  all  commis- 
sars, were  heavy.  Though  in  purely  military  affairs 
he  was  subordinate  to  the  regimental  commander,  he 
none  the  less  was  made  responsible  for  the  latter's 
loyalty  and  answered  equally  with  him  for  discipline 
in  the  ranks;  besides  which  the  responsibility  for  all 
political  propaganda  (regarded  by  the  Government  as 
of  paramount  importance)  and  even  for  accuracy  of  army 
service  rested  upon  him.  A  regimental  commissar's 
responsibilities  are,  in  fact,  so  great  that  he  can  rarely 
guarantee  his  own  security  without  having  recourse  to 
spying  provocation,  and  "experimental  denunciation." 

Even  Morozov  had  to  resort  to  questionable  strategy 
of  this  nature  to  forestall  possible  treachery  in  others  for 
which  he  would  have  been  held  responsible.  Having 
been  informed  by  a  member  of  his  "cell"  that  the  con- 
duct of  a  junior  officer  gave  rise  to  misgivings,  he  had  a 
purely  fictitious  concrete  charge  drawn  up  for  no  other 
reason  than  to  see  how  the  officer  would  react  when  it 


THE  RED  ARMY  249 

was  brought  against  him.  It  was  found,  as  was  not 
unnatural,  that  the  original  complaint  of  the  "political 
worker"  was  due  to  sheer  spite,  and  that  nothing  had 
been  further  from  the  mind  of  the  young  officer,  who  was 
of  a  mild  disposition,  than  to  conspire  against  the  all- 
powerful  commissar.  Anonymous  written  denuncia- 
tions of  individuals,  charging  them  with  counter- 
revolutionary activities,  are  of  frequent  occurrence, 
and  commissars,  terrified  for  their  own  safety,  prefer 
to  err  at  the  cost  of  the  wrongly  accused  rather  than  risk 
their  own  positions  through  leniency  or  over-scrupulous 
attention  to  justice. 

There  is  an  intermediate  grade  between  a  "cell" 
leader  and  a  commissar,  known  as  a  political  guide. 
The  latter  has  not  the  authority  of  a  commissar  but  re- 
presents a  stepping  stone  to  that  dignity.  Political 
guides  have  duties  of  investigation  and  control,  but  their 
chief  task  is  to  rope  in  the  largest  possible  number  of 
neophytes  to  the  Communist  party.  The  whole  power 
of  the  Bolshevist  government  is  founded  on  the  dili- 
gence, zeal,  and — it  must  be  added — unscrupulousness 
of  these  various  Communist  officials.  All  sorts  of  in- 
structions and  propaganda  pamphlets  and  leaflets  are 
received  by  the  "cells"  in  enormous  quantities,  and 
they  have  to  see  that  such  literature  is  distributed  in 
the  ranks  and  amongst  the  local  population.  It  is 
read  but  little,  for  the  soldiers  and  peasants  are  sick  of 
the  constant  repetition  of  worn-out  propagandist  phra- 
seology. It  was  hoped  originally  that  by  the  never- 
ending  repetition  of  the  words  "vampires,"  "bourgeois," 
"class-struggle,"  "blood-sucking  capitalists  and  im- 
perialists," and  so  forth,  some  at  least  of  the  ideas  pre- 
sented would  sink  into  the  listeners'  minds  and  be  taken 


250        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

for  good  coinage.  But  the  results  are  almost  negligible. 
It  says  much  for  the  latent  intelligence  of  the  Russian 
peasant  and  worker  that  in  spite  of  it  all  the  member- 
ship of  "the  party"  is  no  more  than  some  half  million, 
half  of  whom  would  be  anything  but  Communists  if 
they  could.  Propagandist  leaflets  are  used  principally 
for  wrapping  herrings  up  in  and  making  cigarettes  of, 
for  mahorka  (the  pepper-like  tobacco  beloved  of  the 
Russian  soldier)  is  still  issued  in  small  quantities. 

The  only  aspect  of  the  above  propaganda  in  which 
positive  results  have  been  obtained  is  the  rousing  of 
hatred  and  revenge  for  everything  "bourgeois."  The 
word  bourgeois  is  as  foreign  to  the  Russian  language 
as  it  is  to  the  English,  and  the  average  Russian  soldier's 
conception  of  "bourgeois"  is  simply  everything  that  is 
above  his  understanding.  But  by  cleverly  associating 
the  idea  of  "bourgeois"  with  that  of  opulence  and 
landed  possessions,  Bolshevist  agitators  have  made 
great  play  with  it. 

Yet  even  this  has  cut  less  deep  than  might  have  been 
expected,  considering  the  effort  expended.  Propaganda 
on  a  wide  scale  is  possible  only  in  the  towns  and  the 
army,  and  the  army  is  after  all  but  a  very  small  percent- 
age of  the  whole  peasantry.  The  vast  majority  of  the 
peasants  are  home  in  their  villages,  and  Bolshevist 
propaganda  and  administration  reach  no  farther  than 
a  limited  area  bordering  either  side  of  Russia's  sparse 
network  of  railways. 

Every  Communist  organization  throughout  Russia 
has  to  present  periodical  reports  to  headquarters  on  the 
progress  of  its  labours.  It  goes  without  saying  that, 
fearful  of  strict  censure,  such  reports  are  invariably 
drawn  up  in  the  most  favourable  light  possible.     Pal*- 


THE  RED  ARMY  251 

ticularly  is  this  the  case  in  the  army.  If  the  member- 
ship of  a  "cell"  does  not  increase,  the  supervising  com- 
missar or  political  guide  will  be  asked  the  reason  why. 
He  will  be  publicly  hauled  over  the  coals  for  lack  of 
energy,  and  unless  his  labours  fructify  he  is  liable  to  be 
lowered  to  an  inferior  post.  Thus  it  is  in  the  interest  of 
Communist  officials  to  coax,  cajole,  or  even  compel  sol- 
diers to  enter  the  ranks  of  the  party.  The  statistics 
supplied  are  compiled  at  headquarters  and  summaries 
are  published.  It  is  according  to  these  statistics  that 
the  membership  of  the  Communist  party  is  a  little 
more  than  half  a  million,  out  of  the  120  or  130  million 
inhabitants  of  Soviet  Russia. 


Another  feature  of  the  Red  army  which  is  worthy  of 
note  is  the  group  of  organizations  known  as  "Cultural- 
Enlightenment  Committees,"  which  are  entrusted  with 
the  work  of  entertaining  and  "enlightening"  the  sol- 
diers. Being  partly  of  an  educational  character  the 
collaboration  of  non-Communists  on  these  committees 
is  indispensable,  though  rigid  Communist  control  ren- 
ders free  participation  by  intellectuals  impossible. 
There  is  also  a  lack  of  books.  A  department  at  head- 
quarters in  which  Maxim  Gorky  is  interested  deals 
with  the  publication  of  scientific  and  literary  works,  but 
compared  with  the  deluge  of  propagandist  literature  the 
work  of  his  department  is  nil.  The  cultural-enlighten- 
ment committees  arrange  lectures  on  scientific  subjects, 
dramatic  performances,  concerts,  and  cinema  shows. 
The  entertainments  consist  chiefly  in  the  staging  of 
"proletarian"  plays,  written  to  the  order  of  the  depart- 
ment of    propaganda.     From  the  artistic  standpoint 


252        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

these  plays  are  exceedingly  bad — unmitigated  Bolshe- 
vist atrocities — but  their  strong  point  is  that  they 
represent  the  class-struggle  in  a  vivid  and  lurid  light. 
As  no  one  would  go  to  see  them  alone,  other  plays, 
usually  farces,  or  musical  items  are  thrown  in  by  way  of 
attraction.  Propagandist  speeches  by  Lenin,  Trotzky, 
Zinoviev  and  others,  reproduced  on  gramophones,  are 
sometimes  reeled  off  in  the  intervals.  Schools  of 
reading  and  writing  are  attached  to  some  cultural- 
enlightenment  committees. 

In  my  regiment  we  had  no  cultural-enlightenment 
committee.  Not  existing  for  purposes  of  control  they 
were  not  so  universal  as  the  "cells,"  but  depended  to 
some  extent  for  their  establishment  upon  the  enterprise 
of  the  commissar.  Living,  however,  mostly  in  Petro- 
grad,  I  came  in  touch  through  friends  with  other  regi- 
ments than  my  own,  and  attended  several  entertain- 
ments got  up  by  cultural-enlightenment  committees, 
until  I  knew  the  propagandist  speeches,  which  were 
always  the  same,  almost  by  heart.  Let  me  describe 
just  one  such  meeting.  It  was  in  the  regiment  of  which 
Morozov  was  commissar.  At  this  particular  meeting 
I  was  to  have  functioned  as  amateur  accompanist  and 
should  have  done  so  if  one  of  the  singers,  from  a  Petro- 
grad  theatre,  had  not  unexpectedly  brought  a  profes- 
sional with  her.* 

The  organizer  of  this  entertainment,  though  he  played 

*In  such  company  I  was  regarded  as  an  invalid,  suffering  in  body  and 
mind  from  the  ill-treatment  received  at  the  hands  of  a  capitalistic  govern- 
ment. The  story  ran  that  I  was  l>orn  in  one  of  the  Russian  border  provinces, 
but  that  my  father,  a  musician,  had  been  expelled  from  Russia  for  political 
reasons  when  I  was  still  young.  My  family  had  led  a  nomadic  existence  in 
England,  Australia,  and  America.  The  outbreak  of  the  war  found  me  in 
England,  where  I  was  imprisoned  and  suffered  cruel  treatment  for  refusal  to 


THE  RED  ARMY  253 

but  little  part  in  the  performance,  deserves  a  word  of 
mention.  As  a  sailor,  of  about  20  years  of  age,  he  dif- 
fered greatly  from  his  fellows.  He  was  not  ill-favoured 
in  looks,  unintelligent  but  upright,  and  occupied  the 
post  of  chairman  of  the  Poor  Committee  of  a  house 
where  I  was  an  habitual  visitor.  I  will  refer  to  him  as 
Comrade  Rykov.  Like  Morozov,  Rykov  had  had  only 
an  elementary  education  and  knew  nothing  of  history, 
geography,  or  literature.  History  for  him  dated  from 
Karl  Marx,  whom  he  was  taught  to  regard  rather  as  the 
Israelites  did  Moses;  while  his  conception  of  geography 
was  confined  to  a  division  of  the  world's  surface  into 
Red  and  un-Red.  Soviet  Russia  was  Red,  capitalistic 
countries  (of  which  he  believed  there  were  very  few) 
were  White;  and  "white"  was  an  adjective  no  less 
odious  than  "bourgeois."  But  Rykov's  instincts  were 
none  the  less  good  and  it  was  with  a  genuine  desire  to 
better  the  lot  of  the  proletariat  that  he  had  drifted  into 
"  the  party."  Under  the  Tsarist  regime  he  had  suffered 
maltreatment.  He  had  seen  his  comrades  bullied  and 
aggrieved.  The  first  months  of  the  revolution  had 
been  too  tempestuous,  especially  for  the  sailors,  and  the 
forces  at  issue  too  complex,  for  a  man  of  Rykov's  stamp 
to  comprehend  the  causes  underlying  the  failure  of  the 
Provisional  Government.  To  him  the  Soviet  Govern- 
ment personified  the  Revolution  itself.  A  few  catch- 
phrases,    such    as    "dictatorship    of    the    proletariat," 

fight.  Bad  food,  brutality,  and  hungerstriking  had  reduced  me  physically 
and  mentally,  and  after  the  revolution  I  was  deported  as  an  undesirable  alien 
to  my  native  land.  The  story  was  a  plausible  one  and  went  down  very  well. 
It  accounted  for  mannerisms  and  any  deficiency  in  speech.  It  also  relieved 
me  of  the  necessity  of  participation  in  discussions,  but  I  took  care  that  it 
should  be  known  that  there  burned  within  me  an  undying  hatred  of  the 
malicious  government  at  whose  hands  I  had  suffered  wrong. 


254        RED  DUSK  AXD  THE  MORROW 

"tyranny  of  the  bourgeoisie,"  "robber-capitalism," 
"Soviet  emancipation"'  completely  dominated  his  mind 
and  it  seemed  to  him  indisputably  just  that  the  defini- 
tion of  these  terms  should  be  left  absolutely  to  the 
great  ones  who  had  conceived  them.  Thus  Rykov,  like 
most  Communists,  was  utterly  blind  to  inconsistencies. 
The  discussion  by  the  highest  powers  of  policy,  espe- 
cially foreign,  of  which  the  rest  of  the  world  hears  so 
much,  passed  over  them  completely.  Rykov  accepted 
his  directions  unhesitatingly  from  "those  who  knew." 
He  never  asked  himself  why  the  party  was  so  small, 
and  popular  discontent  he  attributed,  as  he  was  told  to 
do,  to  the  pernicious  agitation  of  Mensheviks  and 
Socialist-Revolutionaries,  who  were  but  monarchists  in 
disguise.  Rykov  was  the  type  of  man  the  Bolsheviks 
were  .striving  their  utmost  to  entice  into  the  Communist 
party.  He  had  three  supreme  recommendations:  he 
was  an  untiring  worker,  his  genuinely  good  motives 
would  serve  to  popularize  the  party,  and  he  never 
thought.  It  is  independent  thinkers  the  Bolsheviks 
cannot  tolerate.  Rykov,  like  a  good  Communist,  ac- 
cepted the  dogma  laid  down  from  above  and  that  was 
the  alpha  and  omega  of  his  creed.  But  when  it  came  to 
doing  something  to  improve  the  lot  of  his  fellows  and, 
incidentally,  to  lead  them  into  the  true  Communist 
path,  Rykov  was  all  there.  In  other  realms  he  would 
have  made  an  ideal  Y.  M.  C.  A.  or  Salvation  Army 
worker,  and  it  was  not  surprising  whenever  it  was  a 
question  of  amusing  or  entertaining  the  soldiers  that  he 
was  in  great  demand. 

The  hall  was  decorated  with  red  flags.  Portraits  of 
Lenin,  Trotzky,  Zinoviev,  and  of  course  of  Karl  Marx, 
wreathed   in   red   bunting  and   laurels,   decorated   the 


THE  RED  ARMY  255 

walls.  Over  the  stage  hung  a  crude  inscription  painted 
on  cardboard:  "Long  live  the  Soviet  Power,"  while 
similar  inscriptions,  "Proletarians  of  all  countries, 
unite,"  and  "Long  live  the  World  Revolution,"  were 
hung  around.  The  audience,  consisting  of  the  regiment 
and  numerous  guests,  sat  on  wooden  forms  and  disre- 
garded the  exhibited  injunction  not  to  smoke. 

The  entertainment  commenced  with  the  singing  of 
the  "Internationale,"  the  hymn  of  the  World  Revolu- 
tion. The  music  of  this  song  is  as  un-Russian,  unmelo- 
dious,  banal,  and  uninspiring,  as  any  music  could 
possibly  be.  To  listen  to  its  never-ending  repetition  on 
every  possible  and  impossible  occasion  is  not  the  least 
of  the  inflictions  which  the  Russian  people  are  com- 
pelled to  suffer  under  the  present  dispensation.  When 
one  compares  it  with  the  noble  strains  of  the  former 
national  anthem,  or  with  the  revolutionary  requiem 
which  the  Bolsheviks  have  happily  not  supplanted  by 
any  atrocity  such  as  the  "Internationale"  but  have 
inherited  from  their  predecessors,  or  with  national  songs 
such  as  Yeh-Uhnem,  or  for  that  matter  with  any  Russian 
folk-music,  then  the  "Internationale"  calls  up  a  picture 
of  some  abominable  weed  protruding  from  the  midst  of  a 
garden  of  beautiful  and  fragrant  flowers. 

The  "Internationale"  was  sung  with  energy  by  those 
in  the  audience  who  knew  the  words,  and  the  accom- 
panist made  up  with  bombastic  pianistic  flourishes  for 
the  silence  of  those  who  did  not. 

Nothing  could  have  afforded  a  more  remarkable  con- 
trast than  the  item  that  followed.  It  was  an  unaccom- 
panied quartette  by  four  soldiers  who  sang  a  number  of 
Russian  folk-songs  and  one  or  two  composed  by  the 
leader  of  the  four.     If  you  have  not  listened  to  the 


°56        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

Russian  peasants  of  a  summer  evening  singing  to  accom- 
pany their  dances  on  the  village  green,  you  cannot  know 
exactly  what  it  meant  to  these  peasant  soldiers,  cooped 
in  their  city  barracks,  to  hear  their  songs  re-sung.  The 
singers  had  studiously  rehearsed,  the  execution  was 
excellent,  the  enthusiasm  they  aroused  was  unbounded, 
and  they  were  recalled  again  and  again.  They  would 
probably  have  gone  on  endlessly  had  not  the  Jewish 
agitator,  who  was  acting  as  master  of  ceremonies  and 
who  had  to  make  a  speech  later,  announced  that  they 
must  get  along  with  the  programme.  The  contrast 
between  Bolshevism  and  Russianism  could  never  have 
been  more  strikingly  illustrated  than  by  this  accidental 
sequence  of  the  "Internationale"  followed  by  Russian 
folk-songs.  The  former  was  an  interpretation  in  sound 
of  all  the  drab,  monotonous  unloveliness  of  the  suppos- 
edly proletarian  regime,  the  latter  an  interpretation  in 
music  of  the  unuttered  yearnings  of  the  Russian  soul, 
aspiring  after  things  unearthly,  things  beautiful,  things 
spiritual. 

There  followed  a  selection  of  songs  and  romances  by 
a  lady  singer  from  one  of  the  musical-comedy  theatres, 
and  then  rose  the  agitator.  The  job  of  a  professional 
agitator  is  a  coveted  one  in  Red  Russia.  A  good  agi- 
tator is  regarded  as  a  very  important  functionary,  and 
receives  high  pay.  Coached  in  his  arguments  and 
phraseology  in  the  propagandist  schools  of  the  capitals, 
he  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  but  talk  as  loudly  and  as 
frequently  as  possible,  merely  embellishing  his  speeches 
in  such  a  way  as  to  make  them  forceful  and,  if  possible, 
attractive.  He  requires  no  logic,  and  consequently  no 
brains,  for  he  is  guaranteed  against  heckling  by  the 
Bolshevist  system  of  denouncing  political  opponents  as 


THE  RED  ARMY  257 

"enemies  of  the  State"  and  imprisoning  them.  Thus 
the  entire  stock-in-trade  of  a  professional  agitator  con- 
sists of  "words,  words,  words,"  and  the  more  he  has  of 
them  the  better  for  him. 

The  youth  who  mounted  the  stage  and  prepared  to 
harangue  the  audience  was  nineteen  years  of  age,  of 
criminal  past  (at  this  very  time  he  was  charged  by  the 
Bolsheviks  themselves  with  theft),  and  possessed  of 
pronounced  Hebrew  features.  His  complexion  was 
lustrous,  his  nose  was  aquiline  and  crooked,  his  mouth 
was  small,  and  his  eyes  resembled  those  of  a  mouse. 
His  discourse  consisted  of  the  usual  exhortations  to 
fight  the  landlord  Whites.  He  was  violent  in  his  de- 
nunciation of  the  Allies,  and  of  all  non-Bolshevist 
Socialists.     His  speech  closed  somewhat  as  follows: 

"So,  comrades,  you  see  that  if  we  give  in  to  the 
Whites  all  your  land  will  go  back  to  the  landowners,  all 
the  factories  to  the  money  makers,  and  you  will  be 
crushed  again  under  the  yoke  of  the  murderous  bankers, 
priests,  generals,  landlords,  police,  and  other  hirelings 
of  bourgeois  tyranny.  They  will  whip  you  into  slavery, 
and  on  the  bleeding  backs  of  you,  your  wives,  and  your 
children  they  will  ride  themselves  to  wealth.  We 
Communists  only  can  save  you  from  the  bloody  rage  of 
the  White  demons.  Let  us  defend  Red  Petrograd  to  the 
last  drop  of  our  blood!  Down  with  the  English  and 
French  imperialist  bloodsuckers!  Long  live  the  prole- 
tarian World  Revolution!" 

Having  ended  his  speech  he  signalled  to  the  accom- 
panist to  strike  up  the  "Internationale."  Then  fol- 
lowed another  strange  contrast,  one  of  those  peculiar 
phenomena  often  met  with  in  Russia,  even  in  the  Com- 
munist party.     A  modest,  nervous,  and  gentle-looking 


258        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

individual  whom  I  did  not  know,  as  different  from  the 
previous  speaker  as  water  from  fire,  made  a  strangely 
earnest  speech,  urging  the  necessity  of  self-education  as 
the  only  means  of  restoring  Russia's  fallen  fortunes.  At 
the  admission  of  fallen  fortunes  the  Jew  looked  up  with 
displeasure.  He  had  sung  the  glories  of  the  Red  ad- 
ministration and  the  exploits  of  the  Red  army.  It  was 
not  enough,  said  the  speaker,  that  Russia  had  won  the 
treasured  Soviet  Power — that,  of  course,  was  an  inesti- 
mable boon — but  until  the  people  dragged  themselves 
out  of  the  morass  of  ignorance  they  could  not  profit 
by  its  benefits.  The  masses  of  Russia,  he  urged,  should 
set  strenuously  to  work  to  raise  themselves  culturally 
and  spiritually,  in  order  to  fit  themselves  for  the  great 
task  they  were  called  upon  to  perform,  namely,  to  effect 
the  emancipation  of  the  workers  of  all  the  world. 

The  "Internationale"  was  not  sung  when  he  con- 
cluded. There  was  too  much  sincerity  in  his  speech, 
and  the  bombastic  strains  of  that  ditty  would  have  been 
sadly  out  of  place.  The  rest  of  the  programme  con- 
sisted of  two  stage  performances,  enacted  by  amateurs, 
the  first  one  a  light  comedy,  and  the  second  a  series  of 
propagandist  tableaux,  depicting  the  sudden  emancipa- 
tion of  the  worker  by  the  Soviet  Power,  heralded  by 
an  angel  dressed  all  in  red.  In  one  of  these  comrade 
Rykov  proudly  participated.  In  the  concluding  tab- 
leau the  Red  angel  was  seen  guarding  a  smiling  workman 
and  his  family  on  one  side,  and  a  smiling  peasant  and 
family  on  the  other,  while  the  audience  was  invited  to 
rise  and  sing  the  "Internationale." 

Of  conscious  political  intelligence  in  the  cultural- 
enlightenment  committees  there  is  none,  nor  under 
"iron party  discipline"  can  there  possibly  be  any.     All 


THE  RED  ARMY  259 

Communist  agitators  repeat,  parrot-like,  the  epithets 
and  catch-phrases  dictated  from  above.  None  the  less, 
despite  their  crudity  and  one-sidedness,  these  com- 
mittees serve  a  positive  purpose  in  the  Red  army.  By 
the  provision  of  entertainment  the  savagery  of  the  sol- 
diery has  been  curbed  and  literacy  promoted.  If  they 
were  non-political  and  run  by  intelligent  people  with 
the  sole  object  of  improving  the  minds  of  the  masses 
they  might  be  made  a  real  instrument  for  the  further- 
ance of  education  and  culture.  At  present  they  are 
often  grotesque.  But  representing  an  "upward" 
trend,  the  cultural-enlightenment  committees  form 
a  welcome  contrast  to  the  majority  of  Bolshevist  insti- 
tutions. 


Our  survey  of  the  essential  features  of  the  Red 
army  is  now  complete  and  may  be  summed  up  as 
follows : 

1. — A  military  machine,  with  all  the  attributes  of 
other  armies  but  differing  in  terminology.  Its  strength 
at  the  close  of  1920  was  said  to  be  about  two  million, 
but  this  is  probably  exaggerated. 

2.— A  concomitant  organization,  about  one  tenth 
in  size,  of  the  Communist  party,  permeating  the 
entire  army,  subjected  to  military  experts  in  purely 
military  decisions,  but  with  absolute  powers  of  po- 
litical and  administrative  control,  supplemented  by 
Special  Departments  of  the  Extraordinary  Commission, 
Revolutionary  Tribunals,  and  Special  Commissions 
for  Combating  Desertion. 

3. — A  network  of  Communist-controlled  propagan- 
dist organizations  called  Cultural-Enlightenment  Com- 


260        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

mittees,  whose  object  is  the  entertainment  and  edu- 
cation of  the  soldiers. 

Tractable,  docile,  and  leaderless  though  the  Russian 
people  are,  the  machine  which  has  been  built  up  in 
the  Red  army  is  still  a  monument  to  the  inflexible  will 
and  merciless  determination  of  its  leader,  Trotzky. 
Its  development  has  been  rapid  and  is  perhaps  not 
yet  complete.  Trotzky  would  make  of  it  an  abso- 
lutely soul-less,  will-less,  obedient  instrument  which 
he  may  apply  to  whatsoever  end  he  thinks  fit.  Unless 
a  popular  leader  appears,  the  army  is  Trotzky's  as 
long  as  he  can  feed  it. 

There  are  those  who  have  long  believed  an  internal 
military  coup  to  be  imminent,  organized  by  old-time 
generals  such  as  Brusilov,  Baluev,  Rattel,  Gutov, 
Parsky,  Klembovsky  and  others,  whose  names  are 
associated  with  the  highest  military  posts  in  Soviet 
Russia.  Three  things  militate  against  the  early  success 
of  such  a  coup.  First,  the  experience  of  internal 
conspiracies  shows  it  to  be  next  to  impossible  to  con- 
spire against  the  Extraordinary  Commission.  Sec- 
ondly, the  memory  of  White  administrations  is  still 
too  fresh  in  the  minds  of  the  common  soldier.  Thirdly, 
these  generals  suffer  from  the  same  defect  as  Wrangel, 
Denikin,  and  Kolchak,  in  that  they  are  not  politicians 
and  have  no  concrete  programme  to  offer  the  Russian 
people. 

The  local  popularity  of  peasant  leaders  such  as  the 
"little  fathers"  Balahovitch  in  Bielorusia  and  Makhno 
in  Ukrainia,  who  denounce  Bolsheviks,  Tsars,  and 
landlords  alike,  shows  that  could  a  bigger  man  than 
these  be  found  to  fire  the  imagination  of  the  peasantry 
on  a  nation-wide  scale  the  hoped-for  national  peasant 


THE  RED  ARMY  261 

uprising  might  become  a  reality.  Until  such  a  figure 
arises  it  is  not  from  outside  pressure  or  internal  mili- 
tarist conspiracies,  but  in  the  very  heart  and  core 
of  the  Communist  Party  that  we  must  look  for  the 
signs  of  decay  of  Bolshevism.  Such  signs  are  already 
coming  to  light,  and  must  sooner  or  later  lead  to  cata- 
clysmic developments — unless  they  are  forestalled  by 
what  Pilsudski,  the  socialist  president  of  the  Polish 
Republic,  foresees  as  a  possibility.  Pilsudski  spent 
many  years  in  exile  in  Siberia  under  the  Tsar  for 
revolutionary  agitation  and  knows  Russia  through  and 
through.  He  foresees  the  possibility  that  the  entire 
Russian  population,  maddened  with  hunger,  disease, 
and  despair,  may  eventually  rise  and  sweep  down  on 
western  Europe  in  a  frantic  quest  for  food  and  warmth. 
Such  a  point  will  not  be  reached  as  long  as  the 
peasant,  successfully  defying  Bolshevist  administra- 
tion, continues  to  produce  sufficient  for  his  own  re- 
quirements. It  needs,  however,  but  some  severe 
stress  of  nature,  such  as  the  droughts  which  periodi- 
cally visit  the  country,  to  reduce  the  people  to  that 
condition.  Will  anything  be  able  to  stop  such  an 
avalanche?  Should  it  ever  begin,  the  once  so  ardently 
looked-for  Russian  steam  roller  will  at  last  have 
become  an  awful,  devastating  reality. 


CHAPTER  XII 

"the  party"  and  the  people 

If  I  were  asked  what  feature  of  the  Communist 
regime  I  regarded  as,  above  all,  the  most  conspicuous, 
the  most  impressive,  and  the  most  significant,  I 
should  say  without  hesitation  the  vast  spirit- 
ual gulf  separating  the  Communist  party  from 
the  Russian  people.  I  use  the  word  "spiritual"  not 
in  the  sense  of  "religious."  The  Russian  equivalent, 
duhorny,  is  more  comprehensive,  including  the 
psychological,  and  everything  relating  to  inner, 
contemplative  life,  and  ideals. 

History  scarcely  knows  a  more  flagrant  misnomer 
than  that  of  "government  of  workers  and  peasants." 
In  the  first  place  the  Bolshevist  Government  consists 
not  of  workers  and  peasants  but  of  typical  intellectual 
bourgeois.  In  the  second,  its  policy  is  categorically 
repudiated  by  practically  the  entire  Russian  nation, 
and  it  rides  the  saddle  only  by  bullying  the  workers 
and  peasants  by  whom  it  purports  to  have  been  elected. 
The  incongruity  between  Russian  national  ideals  and 
the  alien  character  of  the  Communists  naturally  will 
not  be  apparent  to  outsiders  who  visit  the  country 
to  study  the  Bolshevist  system  from  the  very  viewpoint 
which  least  of  all  appeals  to  the  Russian,  namely,  the 
possibility  of  its  success  as  a  socialist  experiment. 
But  those  foreign  socialist  enthusiasts  who  adhere 
to    Bolshevist    doctrines    are    presumably    indifferent 

268 


"THE  PARTY"  AND  THE  PEOPLE       263 

to  the  sentiments  of  the  Russian  people,  for  their 
adherence  appears  to  be  based  on  the  most  un-Russian 
of  all  aspects  of  those  doctrines,  namely,  their  in- 
ternationalism. And  this  un-Russian,  international 
aspect  of  Bolshevism  is  admittedly  its  prime  charac- 
teristic. 

There  is  a  sense  of  course  in  which  the  psychology 
of  all  peoples  is  becoming  increasingly  international, 
to  the  great  benefit  of  mankind.  No  one  will  deny 
that  half  our  European  troubles  are  caused  by  the 
chauvinistic  brandishing  of  national  flags  and  quarrels 
about  the  drawing  of  impossible  frontier  lines.  But 
these  are  the  antics  of  a  noisy  few — "Bolsheviks  of 
the  right" — and  do  not  reflect  the  true  desire  of  peoples, 
which  is  for  peace,  harmony,  and  neighbourliness.  Not 
so  the  immediate  aspirations  until  the  present  time 
of  the  Bolsheviks,  whose  first  principle  is  wc~M-wide 
civil  war  between  classes,  and  whose  brandishing  of 
the  red  flag  surpasses  that  of  the  most  rabid  western 
chauvinists.  Theirs  is  not  true  internationalism. 
Like  their  claim  to  represent  the  Russian  people,  it 
is   bogus. 

The  gulf  between  "  the  party  "  and  the  people  yawns  at 
every  step,  but  I  will  only  mention  one  or  two  prominent 
instances.  The  most  important  institution  established 
by  the  Bolsheviks  is  that  known  as  the  "Third  Inter- 
national Workers' Association,"  or  briefly,  the  "Third 
International."  The  aim  of  this  institution  is  to 
reproduce  the  Communist  experiment  in  all  countries. 
The  First  International  was  founded  in  1864  by  Karl 
Marx.  It  was  a  workers'  association  not  world- 
revolutionary  in  character.  Its  sympathy,  however,  with 
the  Paris  Commune  discredited  it,  and  it  was  followed  by 


264        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

the  Second,  which  confined  itself  to  international  labour 
interests.  The  Third  International  was  founded  in 
Moscow  in  the  first  week  of  March,  1919,  amid  cir- 
cumstances of  great  secrecy  by  a  chance  gathering 
of  extreme  socialists  from  about  half  a  dozen  of  the 
thirty  European  states,  leavened  with  a  similar  number 
of  Asiatics.  Subsequently  a  great  meeting  was  held, 
at  which  the  Second,  called  the  "yellow"  International 
because  it  is  composed  of  moderates,  was  declared 
defunct  and  superseded  by  the  "real,"  that  is,  the 
Communist,  International. 

The  next  day  this  group  of  unknown  but  precocious 
individuals  came  to  their  headquarters  at  Petrograd, 
"  the  Metropolis  of  the  "World  Revolution."  I  went  to 
meet  them  at  the  Nicholas  railway  station.  The  mystery 
that  enshrouded  the  birth  of  the  Third  International 
rendered  it  impossible  to  be  duly  impressed  with  the 
solemnity  of  the  occasion,  and  although  I  had  not 
come  either  to  cheer  or  to  jeer,  but  simply  to  look  on, 
I  could  not  but  be  struck  by  the  comicality  of  the 
scene.  The  day  was  frosty,  and  for  nearly  two  hours 
the  members  of  the  Third  International,  standing 
bareheaded  on  a  specially  constructed  tribune,  wasted 
time  saying  exactly  the  same  things  over  and  over 
again,  their  speeches  being  punctuated  by  the  cacoph- 
ony of  three  badly  directed  bands,  In  spite  of 
their  luxurious  fur  coats  the  delegates  shivered  and 
their  faces  turned  blue.  They  did  not  at  all  look  the 
desperadoes  I  had  half  anticipated.  Some  of  them 
were  even  effeminate  in  appearance.  Only  Zinoviev, 
the  president,  with  his  bushy  dishevelled  hair,  looked 
like  an  unrepentant  schoolboy  amid  a  group  of  delin- 
quents caught  red-handed  in  some  unauthorized  prank. 


'THE  PARTY"  AND  THE  PEOPLE   265 

The  orators,  with  chattering  teeth,  sang  in  divers 
tongues  the  praises  of  the  Red  regime.  They  lauded 
the  exemplary  order  prevailing  in  Russia  and  rejoiced 
at  the  happiness,  contentment,  and  devotion  to  the 
Soviet  Government  which  they  encountered  at  every 
step.  They  predicted  the  immediate  advent  of  the 
world  revolution  and  the  early  establishment  of  Bol- 
shevism in  every  country.  They  all  perorated  their 
lengthy  orations  with  the  same  exclamations:  "Long 
live  the  Third  International!";  "Down  with  the 
bourgeoisie!";  "Long  live  socialism!"  (by  which 
they  meant  Bolshevism),  etc.,  and  no  matter  how 
many  times  these  same  slogans  had  been  shouted 
already,  on  each  occasion  they  were  retranslated  at 
length,  with  embellishments,  and  to  the  musical 
accompaniment    of    the    inevitable    "Internationale." 

The  position  of  the  Third  International  in  Russia 
and  its  relation  to  the  Soviet  Government  are  not 
always  easy  to  grasp.  The  executives  both  of  the 
International  and  of  the  Government  are  drawn 
from  the  Communist  party,  while  every  member  of  the 
Government  must  also  be  a  member  of  the  Third 
International.  Thus,  though  technically  not  inter- 
changeable, the  terms  Soviet  Government,  Third 
International,  and  Communist  party  merely  repre- 
sent different  aspects  of  one  and  the  same  thing. 
It  is  in  their  provinces  of  action  that  they  differ. 
The  province  of  the  Third  International  is  the 
whole  world,  including  Russia:  that  of  the  pres- 
ent Soviet  Government  is  Russia  alone.  It  would 
seem  as  if  the  Third  International,  with  its  su- 
perior powers  and  scope  and  with  firebrands  like 
Zinoviev  and  Trotzky  at  its  helm,  must  override  the 


266        RED  DUSK  AXD  THE  MORROW 

Moscow  government.  In  practice,  however,  this  is 
not  so.  For  the  hard  logic  of  facts  has  now  proved 
to  the  Moscow  government  that  the  theories  which 
the  Third  International  was  created  to  propagate  are 
largely  wrong  and  unpracticable,  and  they  are  being 
repudiated  by  the  master  mind  of  Lenin,  the  head  of 
the  home  government.  Thus  two  factions  have 
grown  up  within  the  Communist  party:  that  of  Lenin, 
whose  interests  for  the  time  are  centred  in  Russia 
and  who  would  sacrifice  world-revolutionary  dreams 
to  preserve  Bolshevist  power  in  one  country;  and  that 
of  the  Third  International,  which  throws  discretion 
to  the  winds,  standing  for  world-revolution  for  ever 
and  no  truck  with  the  bourgeoisie  of  capitalistic 
states.  Hitherto  the  majority  in  the  party  have 
swung  to  the  side  of  Lenin,  as  is  not  unnatural,  for 
very  few  rank-and-file  Communists  really  care  about 
the  world  revolution,  having  no  conception  of  what  it 
implies.  And  if  they  had,  they  would  probably  support 
him  more  heartily  still. 

At  the  very  moment  when  the  Third  International 
was  haranguing  for  its  own  satisfaction  outside  the 
Nicholas  station,  very  different  things  were  happening 
in  the  industrial  quarters  of  the  city.  There,  the 
workers,  incensed  by  the  suppression  of  free  speech, 
of  freedom  of  movement,  of  workers'  cooperation,  of 
free  trading  between  the  city  and  the  villages,  and  by 
the  ruthless  seizure  and  imprisonment  of  their  spokes- 
men, had  risen  to  demand  the  restoration  of  their 
rights.  They  were  led  by  the  men  of  the  Putilov 
iron  foundry,  the  largest  works  in  Petrograd,  at  one 
time  employing  over  forty  thousand  hands.  The 
Putilov  workers  were  ever  to  the  fore  in  the  revolution- 


"THE  PARTY"  AND  THE  PEOPLE      267 

ary  movement.  They  led  the  strikes  which  resulted 
in  the  revolution  of  March,  1917.  Their  independent 
bearing,  their  superior  intelligence  and  organization, 
and  their  efforts  to  protest  against  Bolshevist  despotism, 
aroused  the  fears  and  hatred  of  the  Communists,  who 
quite  rightly  attributed  this  independent  attitude  to 
the  preference  of  the  workers  for  the  non-Bolshevist 
political  parties. 

The  dispute  centred  round  the  Bolshevist  food 
system  which  was  rapidly  reducing  the  city  to  a  state 
of  starvation.  Hoping  the  storm  would  blow  over, 
the  Bolshevist  authorities  allowed  it  for  a  time  to  run 
its  course,  endeavouring  to  appease  the  workers  by 
an  issue  of  rations  increased  at  the  expense  of  the  rest 
of  the  population.  The  latter  measure  only  intensified 
the  workers'  indignation,  while  the  hesitation  of  the 
Bolsheviks  to  employ  force  encouraged  them  in  their 
protests.  Unauthorized  meetings  and  processions  in- 
creased in  frequency,  the  strikes  spread  to  every  fac- 
tory in  the  city,  speakers  became  more  violent,  and 
all  sorts  of  jokes  were  made  publicly  at  the  expense  of 
the  Bolsheviks.  Ambling  in  the  industrial  quarters 
I  saw  a  party  of  men  emerge  from  a  plant  singing 
the  Marseillaise  and  cheering.  At  the  same  time 
they  carried  a  banner  on  which  was  rudely  imprinted 
the  following  couplet: 

Doloi  Lenina  s  koninoi, 
Daitje  tsarya  s  svininoi, 

which  being  interpreted  means:  "Down  with  Lenin 
and  horseflesh,  give  us  a  tsar  and  pork!" 

As    the   disturbances   developed,    typewritten    leaf- 


268        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

lets  began  to  be  distributed  containing  resolutions 
passed  at  the  various  meetings.  One  of  these  leaflets 
was  the  resolution  passed  unanimously  by  12,000 
workers  (at  that  time  the  entire  staff)  of  the  Putilov 
works,  demanding  that  the  task  of  provisioning  be 
restored  to  the  former  cooperative  societies.  The 
language  of  the  resolution  was  violent,  the  Bolshevist 
leaders  were  referred  to  as  bloody  and  hypocritical 
tyrants,  and  demands  were  also  put  forward  for  the 
cessation  of  the  practice  of  torture  by  the  Extra- 
ordinary Commission  and  for  the  immediate  release 
of  numerous  workers'  representatives. 

I  knew  of  this  resolution  the  day  of  the  meeting, 
because  some  friends  of  mine  were  present  at  it.  The 
proceedings  were  enthusiastic  in  the  extreme.  The 
Bolsheviks  did  not  mind  that  much,  however,  because 
they  were  careful  that  nothing  about  it  should  get  into 
the  press.  But  when  the  typed  resolutions  spread 
surreptitiously  with  alarming  rapidity,  in  exactly 
the  same  way  as  in  December,  1916,  the  famous 
speech  of  Miliukoff  against  Rasputin  in  the  Duma 
was  secretly  distributed  from  hand  to  hand,  then 
the  Bolsheviks  saw  things  were  going  too  far  and  took 
urgent  measures  to  suppress  the  unrest  without  any 
further  delay. 

One  Sunday  between  thirty  and  forty  street  cars 
full  of  sailors  and  guards,  the  latter  of  whom  spoke 
a  language  that  workers  who  encountered  them  de- 
clared was  not  Russian,  arrived  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
Putilov  works  and  occupied  all  the  entrances.  During 
the  next  three  days  between  three  and  four  hundred 
men  were  arrested,  while  in  those  cases  where  the 
workers  were  not  to  be  found  their  wives  were  taken 


"THE  PARTY"  AND  THE  PEOPLE      269 

in  their  stead.  This  process  is  always  simple  enough 
for  the  workers  are  not  allowed  to  possess  arms.  It 
is  significant  that  among  those  arrested  at  one  of  the 
shipping  yards  were  two  men  who  had  declared  at  a 
meeting  that  even  the  English  parliament  was  superior 
to  the  Soviets  as  the  Bolsheviks  ran  them.  These 
two  were  among  those  who  were  subsequently  shot. 
When  after  returning  to  England  I  recounted  this 
incident  to  the  Committee  on  International  Affairs 
of  the  British  Labour  Party,  the  gentleman  on  my 
right  (I  do  not  know  his  name)  found  nothing  better 
to  exclaim  than,  "Serve  'em  right." 

The  uproar  over  the  arrest  of  the  workers,  and  es- 
pecially of  their  wives,  was  terrific.  The  resolutions 
having  spread  all  over  the  city,  you  could  already  hear 
people  whispering  to  each  other  with  furtive  joy  that 
there  was  shortly  to  be  a  general  insurrection,  that 
Zinoviev  and  others  were  preparing  to  take  flight, 
and  so  on.  In  the  course  of  three  weeks  things  became 
so  bad  that  it  was  deemed  advisable  to  call  Lenin 
from  Moscow  in  the  hope  that  his  presence  would 
overawe  the  workers,  and  a  great  Communist  counter- 
demonstration  was  organized  at   the   Narodny   Dam. 

The  Narodny  Dom  (House  of  the  People)  is  a  huge 
palace  built  for  the  people  by  the  late  Tsar.  Before 
the  war  it  used  to  be  very  difficult,  owing  to  the  system 
of  abonnements,  to  obtain  tickets  to  the  state  theatres, 
of  which  the  Marinsky  Opera  and  the  Alexandrinsky 
Theatre  were  the  chief ;  so  the  Tsar,  at  his  own  expense, 
built  this  palace  and  presented  it  to  the  people.  Be- 
sides numerous  varieties,  it  contained  a  large  theatre 
where  the  same  dramatic  works  were  produced  as  in 
the   state   theatres,   and   the   biggest  opera  house   in 


270        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

Russia,  where  the  Russian  peasant  Shaliapin,  the 
greatest  operatic  singer  and  actor  the  world  has  yet 
seen,  sang  regularly  to  huge  audiences  of  six  or  eight 
thousand  lower  middle  class  and  working  people. 
In  the  days  when  I  was  a  student  of  the  Conservatoire 
of  Petrograd,  eking  out  a  living  by  teaching  English, 
I  often  used  to  frequent  the  Narodny  Dom  opera. 
There  was  free  admission  to  a  portion  of  the  hall,  while 
the  most  expensive  seats  were  at  cinematograph 
prices.  The  inevitable  deficit  was  made  up  out  of 
the  state  exchequer.  Over  the  porch  of  the  building 
was  an  inscription:  From  the  Tsar  to  his  people.  When 
the  Bolsheviks  came  into  power  they  removed  this 
inscription,  and  also  abolished  the  name  of  "House 
of  the  People,"  changing  it  to  "House  of  Rosa  Lux- 
embourg and  Karl  Liebknecht."  Containing  the  larg- 
est auditorium  in  Russia,  this  building  is  now  fre- 
quently used  for  special  celebrations.  As  a  rule,  on  such 
occasions  only  the  Communist  elite  and  special  dele- 
gates are  admitted.  The  common  people  to  whom 
the  Tsar  presented  the  palace  are  refused  admission. 

On  the  evening  of  the  great  Communist  counter- 
demonstration  against  the  Petrograd  strikers,  machine 
guns  barred  the  entrance  to  what  was  once  the  House 
of  the  People,  and  the  approaches  bristled  with  bayo- 
nets. The  former  Tsar,  when  last  he  visited  it,  drove 
up  in  an  open  carriage.  Not  so  the  new  "Tsar,"  the 
president  of  the  workers'  republic,  whose  moment  of 
arrival  was  a  secret  and  who  arrived  literally  hedged 
round  with  a  special  bodyguard  of  Red  cadets. 

The  audience  was  a  picked  one,  consisting  of  the 
principal  Communist  organs  of  the  city  and  delegates 
of  organizations  such  as  trade  unions,  teachers,  and 


"THE  PARTY"  AND  THE  PEOPLE      271 

pupils,  selected  by  the  Communists.  I  got  in  with 
a  ticket  procured  by  my  manager.  When  Lenin 
emerged  on  to  the  stage,  the  audience  rose  as  one  man 
and  greeted  him  with  an  outburst  of  vociferous  ap- 
plause lasting  several  minutes.  The  little  man,  who 
has  such  a  hold  on  a  section  of  his  followers,  advanced 
casually  to  the  footlights.  His  oriental  features  be- 
trayed no  emotion.  He  neither  smiled,  nor  looked 
austere.  Dressed  in  a  plain  drab  lounge  suit,  he 
stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  waiting  patiently 
till  the  cheering  should  subside.  Was  he  indifferent 
to  the  welcome,  or  was  he  secretly  pleased?  He  showed 
no  sign  and  at  length  held  up  his  hand  to  indicate 
that  there  had  been  enough  of  it. 

The  orators  of  the  revolution— and  they  are  indeed 
great  orators — all  have  their  distinctive  style.  That 
of  Trotzky,  with  poised,  well-finished,  well-reasoned 
phrases,  is  volcanic,  fierily  hypnotic :  that  of  Zinoviev, 
torrential,  scintillating  with  cheap  witticisms,  devoid 
of  original  ideas,  but  brilliant  in  form  and  expression; 
that  of  Lunacharsky,  violent,  yet  nobly  and  patheti- 
cally impressive,  breathing  an  almost  religious  fervour. 
Lenin  differs  from  all  of  these.  He  knows  and  cares 
for  no  rhetorical  cunning.  His  manner  is  absolutely 
devoid  of  all  semblance  of  affectation.  He  talks  fast 
and  loudly,  even  shouts,  and  his  gesticulations  remind 
one  of  the  tub-thumping  demagogue.  But  he  posses- 
ses something  the  others  do  not  possess.  Cold  and 
calculating,  he  is  not  actuated  to  the  extent  Zinoviev 
and  Trotzky  are  by  venom  against  political  opponents 
and  the  bourgeoisie.  On  the  contrary,  despite  his 
speeches,  which  are  often  nothing  more  than  necessary 
pandering  to   the  cruder  instincts   of  his  colleagues, 


272        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

Lenin  (himself  an  ex-landlord)  has  never  ceased  to 
believe  not  only  that  the  Russian  bourgeoisie  as  a 
class  are  necessary  to  the  state,  but  that  the  entire 
Russian  peasantry  is  and  always  will  be  a  class  of 
small  propertj'-owning  farmers  with  the  psychology 
of  the  petit  bourgeois.  True,  in  1918  the  attempt 
was  made,  chiefly  through  the  medium  of  committees 
of  the  village  poor,  to  thrust  Communism  upon  the 
peasantry  by  force.  But  it  was  soon  relinquished 
and  Lenin  headed  the  retreat.  Astonishingly  ignorant 
of  world  events  and  completely  out  of  harmony  with 
western  workers,  Lenin  has  maintained  his  position 
in  Russia  simply  by  his  understanding  of  this  single 
trait  of  the  Russian  peasant  character  and  by  repeatedly 
conceding  to  it — even  to  the  complete  temporary 
repudiation  of  communistic  principles. 

In  all  other  respects  Lenin  is  a  dogmatic  disciple 
of  Karl  Marx,  and  his  devotion  to  the  cause  of  the 
world  revolution  is  tempered  only  by  the  slowly 
dawning  realization  that  things  in  the  western  world 
are  not  exactly  as  enthusiastic  Communists  describe. 
But  Lenin's  better  understanding  of  the  mind  of  the 
Russian  peasant  gives  him  an  advantage  over  his 
fellows  in  presenting  his  case  to  his  followers,  bringing 
him  a  little  nearer  to  actualities;  so  that  his  speech, 
while  laboured,  abstruse,  and  free  from  rhetorical 
flourish,  is  straightforward  and,  to  his  little-thinking 
Communist  audiences,  carries  persuasion  that  he  must 
be  right.  But  the  "right"  refers  not  to  ethics,  which 
does  not  enter  into  Bolshevist  philosophy,  but  only  to 
tactics. 

On  the  occasion  T  am  describing  also  Lenin  spoke 
mainly  of  tactics.     The  vicious  Mensheviks  and  So- 


"THE  PARTY"  AND  THE  PEOPLE       273 

cialist-revolutionaries  had  agitated  in  the  factories 
and  persuaded  the  workers  to  down  tools  and  make 
preposterous  demands  which  were  incompatible  with 
the  principles  of  the  workers'  and  peasants'  govern- 
ment. The  chief  ground  cf  complaint  was  the  Bol- 
shevist food  commissariat.  The  workers  were  hungry. 
Therefore  the  workers  must  be  fed  and  the  revolt 
would  subside.  A  heroic  effort  must  be  made  to 
obtain  food  for  the  factories.  So  the  government 
had  decided  to  stop  the  passenger  traffic  on  every 
railroad  in  Russia  for  the  space  of  three  weeks,  in 
order  that  all  available  locomotives  and  every  available 
car  and  truck  might  be  devoted  to  the  sole  purpose 
of  transporting  forced  supplies  of  food  to  the  northern 
capital. 

Of  the  results  of  these  so-called  "freight  weeks" 
little  need  be  said  beyond  the  fact  that  the  experiment 
was  never  repeated  on  account  of  its  complete  failure 
to  solve  the  problem.  For  though  the  government 
supplies  did  indeed  very  slightly  increase,  the  popu- 
lation in  the  end  was  much  hungrier  than  before  for 
the  very  simple  reason  that  the  stoppage  of  the  pas- 
senger traffic  materially  interfered  with  the  ebb  and 
flow  of  "sackmen,"  upon  whose  illicit  and  risky  oper- 
ations the  public  relied  for  at  least  half,  and  the  better 
half,  of  their  food  supplies! 

The  workers'  revolt  subsided,  not  through  the  better 
feeding  of  the  men,  but  because  they  were  effectually 
reduced  to  a  state  of  abject  despair  by  the  ruthless 
seizure  of  their  leaders  and  the  cruel  reprisals  against 
their  wives  and  families,  and  because  this  moment 
was  chosen  by  the  authorities  to  remove  a  large  draft 
of  workers  to  other  industrial  centres  in  the  interior, 


274        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

thus  reducing  their  numbers.  Still,  on  the  occasion 
of  Lenin's  visit,  the  workers  did  make  a  final  attempt 
to  assert  themselves.  A  delegation  from  the  largest 
factories  was  sent  to  present  their  demands,  as  set 
forth  in  resolutions,  to  the  president  in  person  at  the 
Narodny  Dom.  But  the  delegation  was  refused  admis- 
sion. They  returned,  foiled,  to  their  factories  and  ob- 
served to  their  comrades  that  "it  was  easier  to  approach 
the  Tsar  Nicholas  than  it  was  to  gain  access  to  the 
president  of  the  'Soviet  Republic'."  What,  I  wondered, 
would  the  Third  International  have  thought  of  such 
words? 


After  the  experiment  of  the  "freight  weeks,"  the 
next  expedient  resorted  to,  when  the  selfsame  demands 
were  again  presented,  was  a  strangely  inconsistent 
but  an  inevitable  one.  It  was  a  partial  concession 
of  freedom  to  "sackmen."  After  long  and  loud 
clamouring,  a  certain  percentage  of  workers  were 
granted  the  right  to  journey  freely  to  the  provinces 
and  bring  back  two  poods  (72  lbs.)  of  bread  per  head. 
Thus  they  got  the  nickname  of  two-pooders  and  the 
practice  was  called  "two-pooding."  As  everyone 
strove  to  avail  himself  of  the  right  the  railroads  not 
unnaturally  became  terribly  congested,  but  the  measure 
nevertheless  had  the  desired  effect.  Not  only  was 
there  almost  immediately  more  bread  but  the  price 
fell  rapidly.  The  workers  travelled  to  the  grain- 
growing  districts,  came  to  terms  with  the  villagers 
who  willingly  gave  up  to  them  what  they  hid  from 
Bolshevist  requisitioned,  and  journeyed  back,  jealously 
clutching   their   sacks   of   bread.     I   happened    to   be 


"THE  PARTY"  AND  THE  PEOPLE   275 

travelling  to  Moscow  at  this  time  and  the  sight  of 
swarms  of  wretched  "  two-pooders, "  filling  all  the 
cars  and  clambering  on  the  roofs  and  buffers,  was  a 
pitiful  one  indeed.  But  just  at  the  moment  when 
it  seemed  as  if  a  genuine  solution  of  the  food  problem 
in  the  capitals  had  been  found,  "two-pooding"  was 
summarily  cut  short  by  government  edict  on  the 
ground  that  the  congestion  of  the  railways  rendered 
impossible  the  transport  of  the  government's  sup- 
plies. 

For  over  a  year  more  the  Bolsheviks  strove  their 
utmost  to  stave  off  the  inevitable  day  when  it  would 
no  longer  be  possible  to  forbid  the  right  of  free  trading. 
As  the  feud  between  themselves  and  the  peasants 
deepened,  and  the  difficulty  of  provisioning  increased, 
the  government  sought  by  one  palliative  after  another 
to  counteract  the  effects  of  their  own  food  policy. 
But  recently,  in  the  spring  of  this  year,  the  fateful 
step  was  taken.  Against  considerable  opposition  from 
his  followers  Lenin  publicly  repudiated  the  communis- 
tic system  of  forced  requisitions  and  with  certain 
restrictions  restored  the  principle  of  freedom  in  the 
buying  and  selling  of  food. 

This  step  was  a  policy  of  desperation  but  it  is  the 
most  important  event  since  the  Bolshevist  coup  d'etat 
in  November,  1917.  For  it  is  a  repudiation  of  the 
fundamental  plank  of  the  Communist  platform,  the 
first  principle  of  which  is  the  complete  suppression 
of  all  free  trading,  private  business  initiative,  and 
individual  enterprise.  There  is  no  limit  to  the  possi- 
bilities opened  up  by  this  tragic  necessity — as  it 
must  seem  to  the  Communists.  But  having  taken  it, 
however  reluctantly,  why  do  they  not  release  their 


27G        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

opponents  from  prison  and  invite  their  cooperation — 
those  opponents  whose  chief  protest  was  against  the 
stupidity  of  the  Bolshevist  food  system? 

The  explanation  is  that  with  the  Bolshevist  leaders 
the  welfare  of  the  workers  and  peasants,  and  of  hu- 
manity in  general,  is  completely  subservient  to  the 
interest  of  the  Communist  party,  and  this  attitude  is 
inspired  not  so  much  by  selfish  motives  as  by  an 
amazingly  bigoted  conviction  that  the  Bolshevist 
interpretation  of  Marxian  dogma  is  the  sole  formula 
that  will  ultimately  lead  to  what  they  regard  as  the 
"emancipation  of  all  workers."  Astonishing  as  it 
may  seem  in  these  days,  when  the  better  elements  of 
mankind  are  struggling  to  temper  prejudice  with 
reason,  theory  to  the  Bolsheviks  is  all  in  all,  while 
facts  are  only  to  be  recognized  when  they  threaten 
the  dictatorship  of  the  party.  Thus  the  concession 
of  freedom  of  trade  to  the  peasantry  does  not  imply 
any  yielding  of  principle,  but  merely  adaptation  to 
adverse  conditions,  a  step  "backward,"  which  must 
be  "rectified"  the  moment  circumstances  permit. 
That  is  why  Bolshevist  sophists  have  been  talking 
themselves  blue  since  Lenin's  announcement  in  the 
endeavour  to  prove  to  home  and  foreign  followers  that 
the  chameleon  has  not  and  never  will  change  its  colour. 
"Free  trading,"  they  say,  "is  only  a  temporary  un- 
avoidable evil."  Temporary?  But  can  any  one  who 
believes  in  human  nature  conceive  of  a  possible  return 
to  the  system  Lenin  has  discarded? 


One  day  there   occurred    in    Petrograd    a    startling 
event    that    would    have    made    foreign    protagonists 


"THE  PARTY"  AND  THE  PEOPLE      277 

of  proletarian  dictatorship,  had  they  been  present,  sit 
bolt  upright  and  diligently  scratch  their  heads. 

A  re-registration  of  the  party  had  taken  place,  the 
object  being  to  purge  its  ranks  of  what  were  referred  to 
as  "undesirable  elements"  and  "radishes,"  the  latter 
being  a  happy  epithet  invented  by  Trotzky  to  desig- 
nate those  who  were  red  only  on  the  outside.  A 
stringent  condition  of  reentry  was  that  every  member 
should  be  sponsored  for  his  political  reliability,  not 
only  upon  admission  but  in  perpetuity,  by  two  others. 
Such  were  the  fear  and  suspicion  prevailing  even  within 
the  ranks  of  the  party.  The  result  was  that,  besides 
those  who  were  expelled  for  misdemeanours,  many 
Communists,  disquieted  by  the  introduction  of  so 
stringent  a  disciplinary  measure,  profited  by  the  re- 
registration  to  retire,  and  the  membership  was  reduced 
by  more  than  50  per  cent.  A  total  of  less  than  4,000 
was  left  out  of  a  population  of  800,000. 

Immediately  after  the  purge  there  were  districts 
of  the  "metropolis  of  the  world  revolution"  where 
scarcely  a  Communist  was  left.  The  central  com- 
mittee had  been  prepared  to  purge  the  party  of  a  cer- 
tain number  of  undesirables,  but  the  sudden  reduction 
by  over  half  was  a  totally  unexpected  blow.  Its  bitter- 
ness was  enhanced  by  the  fact  that  only  three  weeks 
earlier,  by  means  of  threats,  bribes,  trickery,  and  vio- 
lence, the  Communists  had  secured  over  1,100  out  of 
1,390  seats  at  the  elections  to  the  Petrograd  Soviet, 
which  result  they  were  holding  up  to  the  outside  world 
as  indicative  of  the  spreading  influence  of  Bolshevism. 

The  vitally  urgent  problem  arose  of  how  to  increase 
the  party  membership.  With  this  end  in  view  a 
novel    and    ingenious    idea    was    suddenly    conceived. 


278        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

It  was  resolved  to  make  an  appeal  for  party  recruits 
among  the  workers!  Amazing  though  it  may  seem, 
according  to  their  own  utterances  the  Communist 
leaders  thought  of  this  course  only  as  a  last  resort. 
To  the  outsider  this  must  seem  almost  incredible. 
Even  in  Russia  it  seemed  so  at  first,  but  on  second 
thoughts  it  appeared  less  strange.  For  ever  since 
the  murder  in  1918  of  the  Jewish  commissars  Volo- 
darsky  and  Uritzky,  the  former  by  unknown  workmen 
and  the  latter  by  a  Socialist-Revolutionary  Jew,  the 
Communists  had  come  to  regard  the  workers  on  the 
whole  as  an  unreliable  element,  strongly  under  Men- 
shevist  and  Socialist-Revolutionary  influence.  The 
small  section  that  joined  the  Bolsheviks  were  elevated 
to  posts  of  responsibility,  and  thus  became  detached 
from  the  masses.  But  a  larger  section,  openly  adhering 
to  anti-Bolshevist  parties,  were  left,  and  the  persecution 
to  which  their  spokesmen  were  constantly  subjected 
only  enhanced  their  prestige  in  the  workers'  eyes. 

Of  whom,  then,  had  the  Communist  party  con- 
sisted for  the  first  two  years  of  the  Red  regime?  The 
question  is  not  easy  to  answer,  for  the  systems  of 
admission  have  varied  as  much  as  the  composition  of 
the  party  itself.  The  backbone  of  the  rank  and  file 
was  originally  formed  by  the  sailors,  whom  I  heard 
Trotzky  describe  during  the  riots  of  July,  1917,  as 
"the  pride  and  glory  of  the  revolution."  But  a  year 
or  so  later  there  was  a  good  sprinkling  of  that  type 
of  workman  who,  when  he  is  not  a  Communist,  is 
described  by  the  Communists  as  "workman  bour- 
geois." Though  the  latter  were  often  self-seekers 
and  were  regarded  by  the  workers  in  general  as  snobs, 
they    were   a    better    element    than    the   sailors,    who 


"THE  PARTY"  AND  THE  PEOPLE      279 

with  few  exceptions  were  ruffians.  Further  recruits 
were  drawn  from  amongst  people  of  most  varied 
and  indefinite  type — yardkeepers,  servant  girls,  ex- 
policemen,  prison  warders,  tradesmen,  and  the  petty 
bourgeoisie.  In  rare  instances  one  might  find  students 
and  teachers,  generally  women  of  the  soft,  dreamy, 
mentally  weak  type,  but  perfectly  sincere  and  dis- 
interested. Most  women  Communists  of  the  lower 
ranks  resembled  ogresses. 

In  early  days  membership  of  the  party,  which 
rapidly  came  to  resemble  a  political  aristocracy,  was 
regarded  as  an  inestimable  privilege  worth  great 
trouble  and  cost  to  obtain.  The  magic  word  Com- 
munist inspired  fear  and  secured  admission  and  pref- 
erence everywhere.  Before  it  every  barrier  fell. 
Of  course  endless  abuses  arose,  one  of  which  was  the 
sale  of  the  recommendations  required  for  membership. 
As  workers  showed  no  inclination  to  join,  it  was  self- 
seekers  for  the  most  part  who  got  in,  purchasing  their 
recommendations  by  bribes  or  for  a  fixed  sum  and 
selling  them  in  their  turn  after  admission.  These 
were  the  "undesirables"  of  whom  the  leaders  were 
so  anxious  to  purge  the  party. 

Various  expedients  were  then  devised  to  filter  ap- 
plicants. Party  training  schools  were  established 
for  neophytes,  where  devotion  to  "our"  system  was 
fanned  into  ecstasy  while  burning  hatred  was  excited 
toward  every  other  social  theory  whatsoever.  The 
training  schools  were  never  a  brilliant  success,  for  a 
variety  of  reasons.  The  instruction  was  only  theoret- 
ical and  the  lecturers  were  rarely  able  to  clothe  their 
thoughts  in  simple  language  or  adapt  the  abstruse 
aspects   of   sociological   subjects   to   the   mentality   of 


280        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

their  audiences,  consisting  of  very  youthful  workers 
or  office  employees  lured  into  attendance  by  an  extra 
half  pound  of  bread  issued  after  each  lecture.  The 
course  was  irksome,  involving  sacrifice  of  leisure 
hours,  and  the  number  of  ideiny  ("idealistic")  ap- 
plicants was  too  small  to  permit  rigorous  discipline. 
The  training  schools  were  gradually  superseded  by 
Communist  clubs,  devoting  their  attention  to  concerts 
and  lectures,  resembling  the  cultural-enlightenment 
committees  in  the  army. 

Another  deterrent  to  "radishes"  was  devised  by 
establishing  three  degrees  for  professing  converts: 

1  Sympathizers. 

2  Candidates. 

3  Fully  qualified  Communists. 

Before  being  crowned  with  the  coveted  title  of  "mem- 
ber of  the  Communist  party,"  neophytes  had  to 
pass  through  the  first  two  probationary  stages,  in- 
volving tests  of  loyalty  and  submission  to  party  dis- 
cipline. It  was  the  prerogative  only  of  the  third 
category  to  bear  arms.  It  was  to  them  that  pref- 
erence was  given  in  all  appointments  to  posts  of  res- 
ponsibility. 

One  source  there  is,  upon  which  the  Bolsheviks 
can  rely  for  new  drafts  with  some  confidence.  I 
refer  to  the  Union  of  Communist  Youth.  Realizing 
their  failure  to  convert  the  present  generation,  the 
Communists  have  turned  their  attention  to  the  next 
and  established  this  Union  which  all  school  children 
are  encouraged  to  join.  Even  infants,  when  their 
parents  can  be  induced  or  compelled  to  part  with 
them,  are  prepared  for  initiation  to  the  Union  by 
concentration  in  colonies  and  homes,  where  they  are 


"THE  PARTY"  AND  THE  PEOPLE      281 

fed  on  preferential  rations  at  the  expense  of  the  rest 
of  the  population,  and  clothed  with  clothing  seized 
from  children  whose  parents  refuse  to  be  separated. 
It  is  the  object  of  these  colonies  to  protect  the  young 
minds  from  pernicious  non-Communist  influence  and 
so  to  instil  Bolshevist  ideology  that  by  the  time  they 
reach  adolescence  they  will  be  incapable  of  imbibing 
any  other.  According  to  Bolshevist  admissions  many 
of  these  homes  are  in  an  appalling  state  of  insanitation, 
but  a  few  are  kept  up  by  special  efforts  and  exhibited 
to  foreign  visitors  as  model  nurseries.  It  is  still 
too  early  to  estimate  the  success  of  this  system.  Per- 
sonally I  am  inclined  to  think  that,  when  not  defeated 
by  the  misery  of  insanitation  and  neglect,  the  propa- 
gandist aims  will  be  largely  counteracted  by  the  silent 
but  inevitably  benevolent  influence  of  the  self-sacri- 
ficing intellectuals  (doctors,  matrons,  and  nurses) 
whose  services  cannot  be  dispensed  with  in  the  running 
of  them.  The  tragedy  of  the  children  of  Soviet  Russia 
is  in  the  numbers  that  are  thrown  into  the  streets. 
But  the  Union  of  Communist  Youth,  consisting  of 
adolescents,  with  considerable  license  permitted  them, 
with  endless  concerts,  balls,  theatre  parties  and  excur- 
sions, supplementary  rations  and  issues  of  sweetmeats, 
processioning,  flag-waving,  and  speechmaking  at  pub- 
lic ceremonies,  is  still  the  most  reliable  source  of 
recruits  to  the  Communist  party. 

It  will  be  readily  realized  that  the  party  consisted  of 
a  heterogeneous  medley  of  widely  differing  characters, 
in  which  genuine  toilers  were  a  minority.  When 
the  novel  suggestion  was  made  of  inviting  workers  to 
join,  this  fact  was  admitted  with  laudable  candour. 
The  Bolshevist  spokesmen  frankly  avowed  they  had 


282        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

completely  forgotten  the  workers,  and  a  great  cam- 
paign was  opened  to  draw  them  into  the  party.  "The 
watchword  'Open  the  party  doors  to  the  workers'," 
wrote  Pravda  on  July  25,  1919,  "has  been  forgotten. 
Workers  get  'pickled'  as  soon  as  they  join" — which 
meant  they  become  Communists  and  entirely  lose 
their  individuality  as  workers.  Zinoviev  wrote  a 
long  proclamation  to  toilers  explaining  who  the  Com- 
munists were,  and  their  objects. 

"The  Bolshevist  party,"  said  he,  "was  not  born 
a  year  or  two  ago.  Our  party  has  behind  it  more  than 
one  decade  of  glorious  activity.  The  best  workers 
of  the  world  called  themselves  Communists  with 
pride.  .  .  .  The  party  is  not  a  peculiar  sect,  it 
is  not  an  aristocracy  of  labour.  It  consists  also  of 
workers  and  peasants — only  more  organized,  more 
developed,  knowing  what  they  want  and  with  a  fixed 
programme.  The  Communists  are  not  the  masters,  in 
the  bad  sense  of  that  word,  of  the  workers  and  peasants, 
but  only  their  elder  comrades,  able  to  point  out  the 
right  path.  .  .  .  Recently  we  have  purged  our 
ranks.  We  have  ejected  those  who  in  our  opinion 
did  not  merit  the  grand  honour  of  being  called  Com- 
munists. They  were  mostly  not  workers  but  people 
more  or  less  of  the  privileged  classes  who  tried  to  'paste' 
themselves  on  to  us  because  we  are  in  power.  .  .  . 
Having  done  this  we  open  wide  the  door  of  the  party 
to  people  of  labour.  .  .  .  All  honest  labourers 
may  enter  it.  If  the  party  has  defects  let  us  correct 
them  together.  .  .  .  We  warn  everyone  that  in 
our  party  there  is  iron  discipline.  You  must  harden 
yourself  and  at  the  call  of  the  party  take  up  very 
hard  work.     We  call  all  who  are  willing  to  sacrifice 


"THE  PARTY"  AND  THE  PEOPLE      283 

themselves  for  the  working-class.  Strengthen  and 
help  the  only  party  in  the  world  that  leads  the  workers 
to  liberty!" 

With  all  formalities  such  as  probationary  stages 
removed,  and  diffident  candidates  magnanimously 
assured  that  if  only  they  joined  they  could  learn 
later  what  it  was  all  about,  the  membership  of  the 
party  in  the  northern  capital  rose  in  three  months 
to  23,000.  This  was  slightly  less  than  could  have 
been  mustered,  prkr  to  the  purging,  by  combining 
members,  sympathizers,  candidates,  and  the  Union  of 
Communist  Youth.  The  figures  in  Moscow  were 
approximately  the  same. 

The  above  remarks  apply  to  the  rank  and  file. 
Intellectuality  in  the  party  has  always  been  represented 
largely,  though  by  no  means  exclusively,  by  Jews,  who 
dominate  the  Third  International,  edit  the  Soviet 
journals,  and  direct  propaganda.  It  must  never  be 
forgotten,  however,  that  there  are  just  as  many  Jews 
who  are  opposed  to  Bolshevism,  only  they  cannot  make 
their  voice  heard.  I  find  that  those  who  warn  against 
a  coming  pogrom  of  Jews  as  a  result  of  the  evils  of 
Bolshevism  are  liable  often  to  meet  with  the  reception 
of  a  Cassandra.  Unfortunately,  I  fear  such  an  occur- 
rence to  be  inevitable  if  no  modifying  foreign  influence 
is  at  hand  in  the  country,  and  it  will  be  fanned  by  old- 
regimists  the  world  over.  It  will  be  a  disaster,  because 
Jews  who  have  become  assimilated  into  the  Russian 
nation  may  play  a  valuable  part  in  the  reconstruction 
of  the  country.  There  are  many  who  have  already 
played  leading  roles  in  Russia's  democratic  institutions, 
such  as  the  cooperative  societies  and  land  and  town 
unions,  which  the  Bolsheviks  have  suppressed. 


284        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROAY 

The  higher  orders  of  the  party,  whether  Jew  or 
Russian,  consist  of  the  same  little  band  of  devotees, 
a  few  hundred  strong,  who  before  the  revolution  were, 
still  are,  and  presumably  ever  will  be  the  Bolshevist 
party  proper.  They  in  their  turn  are  subjected  to 
the  rigid  dictatorship  of  the  central  party  committee, 
which  rules  Russia  absolutely  through  the  medium  of 
the  Council  of  People's  Commissars. 

As  it  became  increasingly  evident  that  the  only 
elements  who  of  their  own  free  will  and  in  considerable 
numbers  would  willingly  join  the  party  were  "un- 
desirables," while  a  large  proportion  even  of  those 
workers  who  were  coaxed  into  it  were  but  indifferent 
Communists,  the  tendency  grew  to  make  of  the  party 
a  closed  corporation  subject  to  merciless  discipline, 
the  members  of  which  though  enjoying  material 
privileges  should  have  no  will  of  their  own,  while 
undesirables  should  be  deterred  by  the  imposition 
upon  all  members  of  arduous  duties.  Such  is  the 
position  in  the  capitals  at  the  present  time.  The 
"iron  party  discipline"  is  needed  also  for  another 
reason  besides  that  of  barring  black  sheep.  With 
demoralization,  famine,  and  misery  on  the  increase, 
insubordinate  whisperings  and  questions  are  arising, 
even  within  the  party,  especially  since  the  exacerbating 
factor  of  war  has  disappeared.  These  questionings 
are  growing  in  force  and  affect  the  highest  personages 
in  the  state.  Trotzky,  for  instance,  no  longer  able  to 
satisfy  his  insatiable  ambition,  is  showing  an  inclination 
to  branch  out  on  a  line  all  his  own  in  opposition  to  the 
moderate  and  compromising  tendencies  of  Lenin.  The 
feud  between  them  has  been  relieved  temporarily  by 
assigning  to  Trotzky  a  dominant  role  in  the  promotion 


"THE  PARTY"  AND  THE  PEOPLE      285 

of  the  world  revolution  while  Lenin  controls  domestic 
affairs.  But  the  arrangement  is  necessarily  temporary. 
The  characters  of  the  two  men,  except  under  stress 
of  war,  are  as  incompatible  as  their  respective  policies 
of  violence  and  moderation. 


The  number  of  Communists  being  relatively  so  in- 
finitesimal, how  is  it  that  to-day  on  every  public  and 
supposedly  representative  body  there  sits  an  over- 
whelming and  triumphant  Communist  majority?  Let 
me  very  briefly  describe  the  election  and  a  single 
meeting  of  the  Soviet  of  Petrograd  whose  sittings  I 
attended. 

There  are  people  who  still  ask:  What  exactly  is  a 
"soviet"? — and  the  question  is  not  unnatural  considering 
that  the  Bolsheviks  have  been  at  pains  to  persuade 
the  world  that  there  is  an  indissoluble  connection 
between  Soviet  and  Bolshevism.  There  is,  however, 
absolutely  no  essential  association  whatsoever  between 
the  two  ideas,  and  the  connection  that  exists  in  the 
popular  mind  in  this  and  other  countries  is  a  totally 
fallacious  one.  The  Russian  word  soviet  has  two 
meanings:  "counsel"  and  "council."  When  you  ask 
advice  you  say,  "Please  give  me  soviet,"  or  "can  you 
soviet  me  what  to  do?"  Dentists  have  on  their 
notices:  "Painless  extractions.  Soviet  gratis."  There 
was  a  State  Soviet  (in  the  sense  of  "council")  in  the 
constitution  of  the  Tsar.  It  was  the  upper  house, 
corresponding  to  the  Senate  or  the  House  of  Lords. 
It  was  a  reactionary  institution  and  resembled  the 
Bolshevist  Soviets  in  that  only  certain  sections  of  the 
community  had  a  voice  in  elections  to  it. 


286        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

According  to  the  original  idea,  even  as  propounded 
at  one  time  by  the  Bolsheviks,  the  political  soviet  or 
council  should  be  a  representative  body  to  which 
all  sections  of  the  working  community  (whether  of 
hand  or  brain)  should  have  an  equal  right  to  vote. 
These  Soviets  should  elect  superior  ones  (borough, 
county,  provincial,  etc. J,  until  a  central  soviet  is  con- 
structed, electing  in  its  turn  a  cabinet  of  People's 
Commissars,  responsible  to  a  periodically  convened 
Congress.  This  system  exists  on  paper  at  this  day, 
but  its  validity  in  working  is  completely  nullified  by  the 
simple  process  of  preventing  any  but  Communists 
from  entering  the  lowest  soviet — the  only  one  that 
is  in  direct  contact  with  the  people.  This  restraint 
is  often  effected  by  force,  but  the  franchise  law  in  any 
case  is  limited  and  has  the  effect  of  disenfranchising 
four  out  of  every  five  peasants.  A  few  non-Bolsheviks 
none  the  less  generally  manage  to  get  elected,  although 
at  risk  of  gross  molestation;  but  they  are  regarded 
by  the  Communists  as  intruders  and  can  exert  no 
influence  in  politics. 

One  might  ask  why  the  Bolsheviks,  suppressing 
all  free  Soviets,  maintain  the  farce  of  elections  at  all, 
since  they  cause  a  lot  of  bother.  "Soviets,"  how- 

ever, in  some  form  or  other,  even  fictitious,  are  in- 
dispensable in  order  that  the  government  may  con- 
tinue to  call  itself  for  propagandist  purposes  the 
"Soviet"  Government.  If  the  soviet  or  freely  elected 
council  system  did  work  unshackled  in  Russia  to-day, 
Bolshevism  would  long  ago  have  been  abolished.  In 
fact  one  of  the  demands  frequently  put  forward  during 
strikes  is  for  a  restoration,  side  by  side  with  the 
free  cooperative  societies,  of  the  soviet  system  which 


"THE  PARTY"  AND  THE  PEOPLE   287 

is  now  virtually  suppressed.  Paradoxical  though  it 
be,  Bolshevism  is  in  reality  the  complete  negation 
of  the  soviet  system.  It  is  by  no  means  impossible 
that  the  downfall  of  the  Communists  may  result  in 
a  healthy  effort  to  set  the  Soviets  in  some  form  at 
work  for  the  first  time.  If  this  book  served  no  other 
purpose  than  to  impress  this  vitally  important  fact 
upon  the  reader,  I  should  feel  I  had  not  written  in  vain. 

Whenever  it  is  possible,  that  is,  whenever  no  serious 
opposition  to  a  Communist  candidate  is  expected, 
the  Bolsheviks  allow  an  election  to  take  its  normal 
course,  except  that  the  secret  ballot  has  been  almost 
universally  abolished.  Before  they  rose  to  power 
the  secret  ballot  was  a  cardinal  principle  of  the  Bol- 
shevist programme.  The  argument,  so  typical  of  Bol- 
shevist reasoning,  now  put  forward  in  justification 
of  its  abolition,  is  that  secret  voting  would  be  dis- 
crepant in  a  proletarian  republic  that  has  become 
"free." 

For  this  reason,  the  number  of  Communists  who 
are  elected  without  opposition  is  very  considerable, 
and,  strangely  enough,  it  is  upon  the  bourgeoisie, 
engaged  in  the  multifarious  clerical  tasks  of  the  over- 
burdened bureaucratic  administration,  that  the  author- 
ities are  able  to  rely  for  least  opposition.  Employees 
of  the  government  offices  mostly  miss  the  elections 
if  they  can,  and  if  they  cannot,  acquiesce  passively 
in  the  appointment  of  Communists,  knowing  that 
the  proposal  of  opponents  will  lead,  at  the  least,  to 
extreme  unpleasantness.  A  partial  explanation  of 
this  docility  and  the  general  inability  of  the  Russian 
people  to  assert  themselves  is  to  be  found  in  sheer 
political  inexperience,  for  the  halcyon  days  of  March, 


288        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

1917,  before  the  Bolsheviks  returned,  were  the  only 
time  they  have  known  liberty.  But  at  the  elections 
of  that  period  there  was  little  or  no  controversy,  and 
in  any  case  political  experience  is  not  to  be  acquired 
in  the  short  space  of  a  few  weeks. 

I  will  cite  but  one  instance  of  election  in  a  thoroughly 
bourgeois  institution.  The  return  by  the  Marinsky 
Opera  of  a  Communist  delegate  to  the  Petrograd 
Soviet  was  given  prominence  in  the  Bolshevist  press, 
and  having  at  one  time  been  connected  with  this 
theatre  I  was  interested  to  elucidate  the  circum- 
stances. On  the  election  day,  of  all  the  singers, 
orchestra,  chorus,  and  the  large  staff  of  scene-shifters, 
mechanics,  attendants,  caretakers,  etc.,  numbering 
several  hundred  people,  not  half  a  dozen  appeared. 
So  the  election  was  postponed  till  another  day,  when 
the  Communist  "cell,"  appointed  to  control  the 
election,  brought  in  a  complete  outsider,  whom  they 
"elected"  as  delegate  from  the  theatre.  The  staff 
were  completely  indifferent  and  unaware  until  after- 
wards that  any  election  had  taken  place! 

Not  to  the  passive  bourgeoisie  but  to  the  active 
workers  do  the  Bolsheviks  look  for  opposition  in  the 
cities.  It  is  to  counteract  and  forcibly  prevent  non- 
Bolshevist  propaganda  in  the  workshops  that  their 
chief  energies  are  devoted.  The  elections  I  am  de- 
scribing were  noteworthy  because  they  followed  im- 
mediately upon  a  fresh  outburst  of  strikes,  particularly 
affecting  the  railwaymen  and  street-car  workers.  At 
one  of  the  tramway  parks  bombs  had  been  thrown 
killing  one  worker  and  wounding   three  Communists. 

Only  one  meeting  at  each  factory  or  other  in- 
stitution was  permitted  and  the  printed  instructions 


"THE  PARTY"  AND  THE  PEOPLE      289 

stated  it  must  be  controlled  by  Communists,  who 
were  to  put  forward  their  candidates  first.  Every- 
where where  there  had  been  disturbances  guards  were 
introduced  to  maintain  order  during  the  meeting,  and 
spies  of  the  Extraordinary  Commission  were  sent  to 
note  who,  if  anyone,  raised  their  hand  against  the 
Communist  candidates.  At  the  Obuhov  works  the 
workers  were  told  straight  that  any  who  voted  against 
the  Communists  would  be  dismissed  without  the 
right  of  employment  elsewhere.  At  the  Putilov 
works  the  election  meeting  was  held  without  being 
announced,  so  that  scarcely  any  one  was  present. 
Next  day  the  Putilov  men  heard  to  their  amazement 
that  they  had  unanimously  elected  some  twenty 
Communists  to  the  soviet! 

In  the  district  where  I  was  living  the  Jewish  agi- 
tator of  whom  I  have  spoken  was  entrusted  with 
the  conduct  of  a  much-advertised  house-to-house 
campaign  to  impress  the  workers  and  especially  their 
wives  with  the  virtues  of  the  Communists.  The  recep- 
tion he  received  was  by  no  means  universally  cordial 
and  the  ultimate  triumph  of  the  Communists  was 
to  him  a  matter  of  considerable  relief.  It  goes  without 
saying,  this  was  the  only  kind  of  canvassing.  All 
non-Communist  parties  being  denounced  as  counter- 
revolutionary, the  entire  populace,  except  for  a  few 
intrepid  individuals,  who  courageously  proclaimed 
their  adherence  to  non-Bolshevist  socialist  parties, 
sheltered  behind  the  title  of  "non-partisan,"  and  hav- 
ing no  programme  to  put  forward  but  anti-Communist, 
put  none  forward  at  all.  To  put  one  forward  was 
impossible  anyway,  for  the  printing  press,  the  right 
of  free  speech,  and  the  right  to  use  firearms   (which 


290        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

played  a  great  part)  were  confined  exclusively  to  Com- 
munists. 

But  at  this  particular  election  the  Bolsheviks  forgot 
the  women  workers,  who  turned  out  to  be  unexpectedly 
obstreperous.  In  one  factory  on  the  Vasili  Island 
where  mostly  women  were  employed,  the  Communists 
were  swept  off  the  platform  and  the  women  held  their 
own  meeting,  electing  eight  non-partisan  members. 
In  several  smaller  workshops  the  Communists  suffered 
unexpected  defeat,  perhaps  because  all  the  available 
arms  were  concentrated  in  the  larger  factories,  and 
the  ultimate  outcome  of  the  elections,  though  the 
Communists  of  course  were  in  the  majority,  was  a 
reduction  of  their  majority  from  90  to  82  per  cent. 

On  the  opening  day  of  the  Soviet,  armed  with  the 
mandate  of  a  guest  from  my  regiment,  I  made  my 
way  to  the  famous  Tauride  Palace,  now  called  "Palace 
of  Uritzky,"  the  seat  of  the  former  Duma.  I  pictured 
to  myself,  as  I  entered  the  building,  the  memorable 
days  and  nights  of  March,  1917.  There  was  no 
such  enthusiasm  now  as  there  had  been  then.  No, 
there  was  war,  war  between  a  Party  and  the  People. 
Machine  guns  fixed  on  motor-cycles  were  posted 
threateningly  outside  the  porch  and  a  company  of 
Reds  defended  the  entrance. 

The  meeting  was  scheduled  for  5  o'clock,  so  knowing 
soviet  practices  I  strolled  in  about  quarter  to  six, 
counting  on  still  having  lime  on  my  hands  before  there 
would  be  anything  doing.  Speaking  of  unpunctuality, 
I  remember  an  occasion  in  1918  when  I  had  to  make 
a  statement  to  the  Samara  soviet  on  some  work  I 
was  engaged  in.  I  wished  to  secure  a  hall  for  a  pub- 
lic lecture  on   science  by   an  American   professor.     I 


"THE  PARTY"  AND  THE  PEOPLE      291 

received  an  official  invitation  to  appear  at  the  soviet 
at  5  p.  m.  to  explain  my  object  in  detail.  I  attended 
punctually.  At  5:30  the  first  deputy  strolled  in  and, 
seeing  no  one  there,  asked  me  when  the  sitting  would 
begin. 

"I  was  invited  for  5  o'clock,"  I  replied. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "five  o'clock — that's  right,"  and 
strolled  out  again.  At  6  three  or  four  workmen  were 
lounging  about,  chatting  or  doing  nothing  to  pass 
the   time. 

"Do  you  always  start  so  unpunctually?"  I  asked 
one  of  them. 

"If  you  have  lived  so  long  in  Russia,"  was  the 
good-natured  retort,  "you  ought  to  know  us  by  now." 
At  7  everybody  was  in  evidence  except  the  chairman. 
That  dignitary  appeared  at  7:15  with  the  apology 
that  he  had  "stopped  to  chat  with  a  comrade  in  the 

J.  L     " 

street. 

To-day's  soviet  meeting  at  Petrograd,  scheduled 
for  5,  began  at  9,  but  there  were  extenuating  circum- 
stances. The  still -discontented  workmen  had  been 
invited  during  the  day  to  listen  to  Zinoviev  who 
strove  to  pacify  them  by  conceding  their  furlough, 
which  on  account  of  the  war  had  been  cancelled.  The 
soviet  deputies  wandered  up  and  down  the  lobbies  and 
corridors,  while  the  workmen  streamed  out  talking 
heatedly  or  with  looks  of  gloom  on  their  faces. 

The  hall  within  the  palace  has  been  altered  with 
improvements.  The  wall  behind  the  tribune  where 
the  portrait  of  the  Tsar  used  to  hang  has  been  re- 
moved and  a  deep  alcove  made  seating  over  100 
people,  where  the  executive  committee  and  special 
guests    sit.     The    executive    committee    numbers    40 


292        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

people  and  constitutes  a  sort  of  cabinet,  doing  all 
the  legislation.  Its  members  are  always  Communists. 
The  soviet  proper  never  takes  part  in  legislation.  By 
its  character,  and  especially  by  the  manner  in  which 
its  sittings  are  held,  it  is  impossible  that  it  should. 
The  number  of  deputies  is  over  1,300,  an  unwieldy 
body  in  which  discussion  is  difficult  in  any  case,  but 
to  make  it  completely  impossible  numerous  guests 
are  invited  from  other  organizations  of  a  Communist 
character.  By  this  means  the  audience  is  doubled. 
And  one  must  still  add  the  chauffeurs,  street-car  con- 
ductors, and  general  servants  of  the  building  who 
also  find  their  way  in.  Everybody  takes  part  in  the 
voting,  no  discrimination  being  made  between  members 
and  bidden  or  unbidden  guests. 

At  nine  all  was  ready  for  the  soviet  to  open.  By 
sitting  three  at  a  desk  there  were  seats  for  about  2,000 
people.  The  others  stood  at  the  back  or  swarmed  into 
the  balcony.  Sailors  were  very  conspicuous.  The 
day  was  warm  and  the  air  was  stifling.  Around  the 
walls  hung  notices:  "You  are  requested  not  to  smoke." 
In  spite  of  this,  half  way  through  the  meeting  the 
room  was  full  of  smoke.  Together  with  others  I 
doffed  my  coat  and,  removing  my  belt,  pulled  up 
my  shirt  and  flapped  it  up  and  down  by  way  of  venti- 
lation. Performed  en  gros  this  operation  was  hardly 
conducive  to  the  purification  of  the  atmosphere. 

I  secured  a  seat  at  the  back  whence  I  could  see 
everything.  My  neighbour  was  a  woman,  a  dishevelled 
little  creature  who  seemed  much  embarrassed  at  her 
surroundings.  Every  time  any  one  rose  to  speak 
she  asked  me  who  it  was.  While  we  waited  for  pro- 
ceedings to  begin  she  confided,  in  answer  to  my  ques- 


"THE  PARTY"  AND  THE  PEOPLE      293 

tion,  that  she  was  a  guest,  like  myself.  "I  signed 
on  recently  as  a  'sympathizer',"  she  said. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  burst  of  applause.  A  well- 
known  figure  with  bushy  hair  and  Jewish  features 
entered  and  strolled  nonchalantly  up  to  the  tribune. 
"That  is  Zinoviev,"  I  said  to  my  neighbour,  but  she 
knew   Zinoviev. 

A  bell  rang  and  silence  ensued. 

"I  pronounce  the  Fourth  Petrograd  Soviet  open," 
said  a  tall  man  in  clothes  of  military  cut  who  stood 
at  the  right  of  the  president's  chair.  "That  is  Evdoki- 
mov,  the  secretary,"  I  said  to  my  companion,  to  which 
she  replied  profoundly,  "Ah!" 

An  orchestra  stationed  in  one  corner  of  the  hall  struck 
up  the  "Internationale."  Everyone  rose.  Another  or- 
chestra up  in  the  balcony  also  struck  up  the  "Inter- 
nationale," but  two  beats  later  and  failed  to  catch  up. 
You  listened  and  sang  with  the  one  you  were  nearest  to. 

"At  the  instance  of  the  Communist  party,"  pro- 
ceeded Evdokimov  in  a  clear  voice,  "I  propose  the 
following  members  to  be  elected  to  the  executive 
committee."  He  read  out  forty  names,  all  Commun- 
ists. "Those  in  favour  raise  hands."  A  sea  of  hands 
rose.  "Who  is  against?"  To  the  general  excitement 
a  number  of  hands  were  raised — an  unheard-of  event 
for  many  a  month.  "Accepted  by  large  majority," 
exclaimed  the  secretary. 

"The  Communist  party,"  he  continued,  "proposes 
the  following  to  be  elected  to  the  presidium."  He 
read  the  names  of  seven  Communists,  including  his 
own.  About  half  a  dozen  hands  were  raised  against 
this  proposal,  to  the  general  amusement. 

"The  Communist  party  proposes  comrade  Zinoviev 


294        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

to  be  president  of  the  soviet,"  proceeded  the  secretary 
in  heightened  tones.  There  was  a  storm  of  applause. 
One  single  hand  was  raised  in  opposition  and  was 
greeted  with  hilarious  laughter.  Zinoviev  advanced 
to  the  presidential  chair  and  the  orchestras  struck 
up  the  "Internationale."  The  election  of  the  ex- 
ecutive committee,  the  presidium,  and  the  president 
had  occupied  less  than  five  minute  . 

Opening  his  speech  with  a  reference  to  the  recent 
elections,  Zinoviev  exulted  in  the  fact  that  of  the  1,390 
members  a  thousand  were  fully  qualified  members  of 
the  Communist  party  whilst  many  others  were  candi- 
dates. "We  were  convinced,"  he  exclaimed,  "that 
the  working  class  of  Red  Petrograd  would  remain 
true  to  itself  and  return  only  the  best  representatives 
to  the  soviet,  and  we  were  not  mistaken."  After 
defining  the  tasks  of  the  new  soviet  as  the  defence 
and  provisioning  of  the  city  he  spoke  of  the  strikes, 
which  he  attributed  to  agents  of  the  Allies  and  to  the 
Mensheviks  and  Socialist-Revolutionaries.  It  was 
perhaps  not  such  a  bad  thing,  he  said  in  effect,  that 
some  rascal  Mensheviks  and  Socialist-Revolutionaries 
had  got  into  the  soviet,  for  it  would  be  the  easier 
to  catch  them  if  they  were  on  the  side  of  the  counter- 
revolutionaries. Continuing,  he  praised  the  Red  army 
and  the  Baltic  fleet  and  concluded,  as  usual,  with  a 
prediction  of  early  revolution  in  western  Europe. 
"Comrades,"  he  cried,  "the  tyrannous  governments 
of  the  west  are  on  the  eve  of  their  fall.  The  bourgeois 
despots  are  doomed.  The  workers  are  rising  in  their 
millions  to  sweep  them  away.  They  are  looking  to 
us,  to  the  Red  proletariat,  to  lead  them  to  victory. 
Long  live  the  Communist  International!" 


"THE  PARTY"  AND  THE  PEOPLE      295 

He  ended  amidst  tremendous  cheering.  During 
his  speech  the  "Internationale"  was  played  three 
times  and  at  its  conclusion  twice  more. 

Then  Zinoviev  proposed  a  novel  motion.  He  in- 
vited discussion.  There  was  a  distinct  tendency 
in  view  of  the  increase  of  the  non-partisan  element 
in  the  soviet  to  invite  the  latter's  cooperation — under 
strict  control,  of  course,  of  the  Communists.  The 
permission  of  discussion,  however,  was  easy  to  under- 
stand when  the  next  speaker  announced  by  the  president 
declared  himself  to  be  an  ex-Menshevik  now  converted 
to  Communism.  His  harangue  was  short  and  ended 
with  a  panegyric  of  the  Bolshevist  leaders.  He  was 
followed  by  an  anarchist,  who  was  inarticulate,  but 
who  roundly  denounced  the  "thieves  of  the  food 
department."  His  speech  was  punctuated  by  furious 
howls  and  whistling,  particularly  on  the  part  of  the 
sailors.  None  the  less  he  introduced  an  anti-Com- 
munist resolution  which  was  scarcely  audible  and  for 
which  a  few  hands  were  raised.  Zinoviev  repeatedly 
called  for  order  but  looked  pleased  enough  at  the 
disturbance.  The  anarchist  sat  down  amidst  a  storm 
of  laughter  and  booing.  Zinoviev  then  closed  the 
discussion. 

There  then  approached  the  tribune  a  business-like 
looking  little  man,  rather  stout,  round-shouldered, 
and  with  a  black  moustache.  "This  is  Badaev,  com- 
missar of  feed,"  I  said  to  my  neighbour.  Sitting 
in  front  c::  us  were  two  young  soldiers  who  seemed 
to  treat  the  general  proceedings  with  undue  levity. 
When  the  plump  Badaev  mounted  the  tribune  they 
nudged  each  other  and  one  of  them  said,  referring  to 
the    graded    categories    into   which   the   populace   is 


296        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

divided  for  purposes  of  provisioning:  "Look!  what 
a  tub!  Ask  him  what  food  category  he  belongs  to" — 
at  which  little  pleasantry  they  both  giggled  convul- 
sively for  several  minutes. 

Badaev  spoke  well  but  with  no  oratorical  cunning. 
He  said  the  food  situation  was  deplorable,  that 
speculation  was  rife,  and  mentioned  decrees  which 
should  rectify  defects.  Badaev  could  hardly  be  called 
a  logician.  Though  the  soup  was  bad,  he  said  in 
effect,  the  Communist  provisioning  apparatus  would 
be  the  most  perfect  in  the  world.  He  admitted  abuses 
in  the  communal  kitchens.  Communists,  he  ac- 
knowledged regretfully,  were  as  bad  as  the  others. 
"You  must  elect  controllers  for  the  eating-houses," 
he  said,  "but  you  must  never  let  them  stay  long  in 
one  job.  They  have  a  knack  of  chumming  up  with 
the  cook,   so  you  must  always  keep  them  moving." 

There  were  several  other  speakers  who  all  sang  the 
praises  of  the  Communist  party  and  the  good  judgment 
of  the  electorate.  At  first  attentive,  after  midnight 
the  audience  became  languid.  Periodically  the  "Inter- 
nationale" was  played.  Toward  the  end  many 
people  lolled  over  the  desks  with  their  heads  on  their 
arms.  Like  schoolchildren,  they  were  not  allowed 
to  leave  before  the  end  except  upon  some  valid  pre- 
text. 

At  last  the  "Internationale"  was  played  for  the 
very  last  time  while  the  men  did  up  their  loosened 
belts  and  donned  their  coats.  The  audience  streamed 
out  into  the  cool  summer  air.  My  head  ached  vio- 
lently. I  walked  along  to  the  quay  of  the  Neva. 
The  river  was  superb.  The  sky-line  of  the  summer 
night  was  tinged  with  delicate  pink,  blue,  and  green. 


"THE  PARTY"  AND  THE  PEOPLE      297 

I  looked  at  the  water  and  leaning  over  the  parapet 
laid   my   throbbing   temples   against   the   cold   stone. 

A  militiaman  touched  my  arm.  "Who  are  you?" 
he  demanded. 

"I  come  from  the  soviet." 

"Your  mandate?" 

I  showed  it.     "I  am  going  home,"  I  added. 

He  was  not  a  rough -looking  fellow.  I  had  a  strange 
impulse  to  exclaim  bitterly:  "Comrade,  tell  me,  how 
long  will  this  revolution  last?"  But  what  was  the 
good?  Though  everybody  asks  it,  this  is  the  one 
question  nobody  can  answer. 

My  path  lay  along  the  beautiful  river.  The  stream 
flowed  fast — faster  than  I  walked.  It  seemed  to  me 
to  be  getting  ever  faster.  It  was  like  the  Revolution — 
this  river — flowing  with  an  inexorable,  ever  swifter, 
endless  tide.  To  my  fevered  fancy  it  became  a  roaring 
torrent  tearing  all  before  it,  like  the  rapids  of  Niagara; 
not,  however,  like  those,  snowy  white,  but  Red,  Red, 
Red. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ESCAPE 

Flight  from  the  prison  of  "Soviet"  Russia  was  as 
difficult  a  matter  for  me  as  for  any  Russian  anxious 
to  elude  pursuit  and  escape  unobserved.  Several 
designs  failed  before  I  met  with  success.  According 
to  one  of  these  I  was  to  be  put  across  the  Finnish  fron- 
tier secretly,  but  officially,  by  the  Bolshevist  author- 
ities as  a  foreign  propagandist,  for  which  I  was  fitted 
by  my  knowledge  of  foreign  languages.  I  was  already 
in  possession  of  several  bushels  of  literature  in  half  a 
dozen  tongues  which  were  to  be  delivered  at  a  secret 
address  in  Finland.  Fighting,  however,  unexpectedly 
broke  out  on  the  Finnish  frontier,  the  regiment  through 
which  the  arrangements  were  being  made  moved,  and 
the  plan  was  held  up  indefinitely.  Before  it  could 
be  renewed  I  had  left  Petrograd. 

Another  scheme  was  devised  by  a  friend  of  mine, 
occupying  a  prominent  position  at  the  Admiralty,  at 
the  time  when  the  British  fleet  was  operating  in  the 
gulf  of  Finland.  On  a  certain  day  a  tug  was  to  be 
placed  at  the  disposal  of  this  officer  for  certain  work 
near  Cronstadt.  The  plan  he  invented  was  to  tell 
the  captain  of  the  tug  that  he  had  been  instructed  to 
coiivey  to  the  shores  of  Finland  a  British  admiral 
who  had  secretly  visited  Petrograd  to  confer  with  the 
Bolsheviks.  At  midnight  the  tug  would  be  alongside 
the  quay.      My  friend   was   to  fit  me  out  in  sailor's 

i'js 


ESCAPE  299 

uniform  and  I  was  to  pose  as  the  disguised  British 
admiral.  Then,  instead  of  stopping  at  Cronstadt, 
we  should  steam  past  the  fort  and  escape,  under  the 
soviet  flag  and  using  soviet  signals,  to  Finland.  If 
the  captain  smelt  a  rat  a  revolver  would  doubtless 
quiet  his  olfactory  nerve.  But  two  days  before  the 
event,  the  famous  British  naval  raid  on  Cronstadt 
was  made  and  several  Russian  ships  were  sunk.  My 
friend  was  ordered  there  at  once  to  assist  in  reorgani- 
zation, and  I — well,  I  failed  to  become  an  admiral. 
The  most  exciting  of  these  unsuccessful  efforts 
ended  with  shipwreck  in  a  fishing  boat  in  the  gulf. 
At  a  house  where  I  was  staying  there  had  been  a 
search,  the  object  of  which  was  to  discover  the  source 
of  allied  intelligence,  and  I  escaped  by  throwing  a  fit 
(previously  rehearsed  in  anticipation  of  an  emergency) 
which  so  terrified  the  searchers  that  they  left  me 
alone.  But  I  was  forced  subsequently  to  flee  out  of 
the  city  and  hide  for  some  nights  in  a  cemetery.  Hav- 
ing got  wind  of  my  difficulties,  the  British  Govern- 
ment sought  to  effect  my  rescue  by  sending  U-boat 
chasers  nearly  up  to  the  mouth  of  the  Neva  to  fetch 
me  away.  These  boats  were  able  to  run  the  gauntlet 
of  the  Cronstadt  forts  at  a  speed  of  over  50  knots. 
A  message  informed  me  of  four  nights  on  which  a 
chaser  would  come,  and  I  was  to  arrange  to  meet 
it  at  a  certain  point  in  the  sea  at  a  stipulated  hour. 
The  difficulties  were  almost  insurmountable,  but 
on  the  fourth  night  I  succeeded,  with  a  Russian  mid- 
shipman, in  procuring  a  fishing  boat  and  setting  out 
secretly  from  a  secluded  spot  on  the  northern  shore. 
But  the  weather  had  been  bad,  a  squall  arose,  our 
boat  was  unwieldy  and  rode  the  waves  badly.    My 


300        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

companion  behaved  heroically  and  it  was  due  to  his 
superior  seamanship  that  the  boat  remained  afloat  as 
long  as  it  did.  It  was  finally  completely  overwhelmed, 
sinking  beneath  us,  and  we  had  to  swim  ashore.  The 
rest  of  the  night  we  spent  in  the  woods,  where  we 
were  fired  on  by  a  patrol  but  eluded  their  vigilance  by 
scrambling  into  a  scrubby  bog  and  lying  still  till  day- 
light. 

Then  one  day  my  commander  informed  me  that 
he  had  orders  to  move  our  regiment  to  the  front. 
After  a  moment's  consideration  I  asked  if  he  would 
be  able  to  send  some  of  his  soldiers  down  in  small  de- 
tachments, say  of  two  or  three,  to  which  he  replied, 
"Possibly."  This  intelligence  set  me  thinking  very 
hard.  In  a  minute  I  leaned  over  to  him  and  in  a  low 
tone  said  something  which  set  him,  too,  thinking  very 
hard.  A  smile  gradually  began  to  flicker  round  his 
lips  and  he  very  slowly  closed  one  eye  and  reopened  it. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "I  will  see  to  it  that  you  are 
duly   'killed'." 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  on  a  Sunday  evening 
two  or  three  days  before  the  regiment  left  Petrograd 
I  set  out  with  two  companions,  detailed  off  to  join 
an  artillery  brigade  at  a  distant  point  of  the  Latvian 
front  near  Dvinsk.  The  Baltic  State  of  Latvia  was 
still  at  war  with  Soviet  Russia.  My  companions 
belonged  to  another  regiment  but  were  temporarily 
transferred.  They  were  both  fellows  of  sterling  worth 
who  had  stood  by  me  in  many  a  scrape,  and  both  wished 
to  desert  and  serve  the  Allies,  but  feared  they  might 
be  shot  as  Communists  by  the  Whites.  So  I  had 
promised  to  take  them  with  me  when  I  went.  One 
was  a  giant  over  six  feet  high,  a  law  student,  prize 


ESCAPE  301 

boxer,  expert  marksman,  a  Hercules  and  sportsman  in 
every  sense  and  a  boon  companion  on  an  adventure 
such  as  ours.  The  other  was  a  youth,  cultured,  gentle, 
but  intrepid,  who  luckily  knew  the  strip  of  country 
to  which  we  were  being  sent. 

The  first  night  we  travelled  for  eleven  hours  in 
the  lobby  of  a  passenger  car.  The  train  was  already 
packed  when  we  got  on,  people  were  sitting  on  the 
buffers  and  roofs,  but  having  some  muscle  between 
us  we  took  the  steps  by  storm  and  held  on  tight. 

I  was  the  fortunate  one  on  top.  The  lobby  might 
have  contained  four  comfortably,  but  there  were 
already  nine  people  in  it,  all  with  sacks  and  baggage. 
About  half  an  hour  after  the  train  started  I  succeeded 
in  forcing  the  door  open  sufficiently  to  squeeze  half 
in.  My  companions  smashed  the  window  and,  to  the 
horror  of  those  within,  clambered  through  it  and 
wedged  themselves  downwards.  Treating  the  thing, 
in  Russian  style,  as  a  huge  joke,  they  soon  overcame 
the  profanity  of  the  opposition.  Eventually  I  got 
the  other  half  of  me  through  the  door,  it  shut  with 
a  slam,  and  we  breathed  again. 

Next  day  we  slept  out  on  the  grass  at  a  junction 
station.  The  second  night's  journey  was  to  take  us 
to  the  destination  mentioned  on  our  order  papers,  and 
in  the  course  of  it  we  had  a  curious  experience.  About 
three  in  the  morning  we  noticed  that  the  train  had  been 
shunted  on  to  a  siding,  while  muffled  cries  in  the 
stillness  of  the  night  showed  that  something  unusual  was 
happening.  One  of  my  companions,  who  reconnoitred, 
brought  the  most  unwelcome  intelligence  that  the  train 
was  surrounded  and  was  going  to  be  searched.  On  the 
previous   day,   while  resting  at  the  junction  station, 


302        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

we  had  been  encountered  by  a  shady  individual  clearly 
belonging  to  the  local  Committee  for  Combating 
Desertion,  who  questioned  us  repeatedly  regarding 
our  duties  and  destination.  The  recollection  of  this 
incident  gave  rise  in  our  minds  to  a  fear  that  we 
might  be  the  objects  of  the  search,  and  this  sus- 
picion became  intensified  with  all  three  of  us  to  the 
force  of  a  terrible  conviction  when,  after  a  second 
reconnoitre,  we  learned  that  our  car  was  the  particu- 
larly suspected  one.  We  occupied  with  two  other 
men  a  half  compartment  at  the  end  of  a  long  second- 
class  coach,  but  conversation  with  our  fellow  travellers 
failed  to  give  us  any  clue  as  to  their  business.  The 
problem  which  faced  us  was,  how  to  dispose  of  three 
small  packets  we  were  carrying,  containing  maps, 
documents,  and  personal  papers  of  my  own,  all  of 
the  most  incriminating  nature.  The}7  were  concealed 
in  a  bag  of  salt,  through  the  sides  of  which  the  packets 
slightly  protruded.  The  bag  of  salt  would  most  cer- 
tainly be  opened  to  see  what  was  in  it.  Our  first  idea 
was  to  throw  it  out  of  the  window,  but  this  could  not 
be  done  unobserved  because  our  two  unknown  travelling 
companions  occupied  the  seats  nearest  the  window. 
So  in  the  pitch  darkness  we  thrust  them,  loose,  under 
the  seat,  where  they  would  of  course  be  discovered  but 
we  would  say  desperately  that  they  were  not  ours.  This 
was  just  done  when  the  door  opened  and  a  man  with  a 
candle  put  his  head  in  and  asked:  "Where  are  you 
all  going?"  It  turned  out  that  we  were  all  leaving  the 
train  at  Rezhitsa.  "Rezhitsa?"  said  the  man  with  the 
candle,  "Good.  Then  at  Rezhitsa  we  will  put  prisoners 
in  here." 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  hour  of  suspense 


ESCAPE  303 

that  followed.  Calmly  though  my  two  friends  resigned 
themselves  to  what  appeared  to  be  an  inevitable  fate, 
I  was  quite  unable  to  follow  their  example.  I,  per' 
sonally,  might  not  be  shot — not  at  once  at  any  rate — • 
but  should  more  likely  be  held  as  a  valuable  hostage, 
whom  the  Soviet  Government  would  use  to  secure 
concessions  from  the  British.  But  my  two  faithful 
companions  would  be  shot  like  dogs  against  the  first 
wall,  and  though  each  of  us  was  cognizant  from  the 
outset  of  the  risk,  when  the  fatal  moment  came  and 
I  knew  there  was  absolutely  nothing  could  save  them 
the  bitterness  of  the  realization  was  past  belief. 

Compartment  by  compartment  the  train  was 
searched.  The  subdued  hubbub  and  commotion  ac- 
companying the  turning  out  of  passengers,  the  ex- 
amination of  their  belongings,  and  the  scrutiny  of 
seats,  racks,  and  cushions,  gradually  approached  our 
end  of  the  coach.  From  the  other  half  of  our  com- 
partment somebody  was  ejected  and  someone  else 
put  in  in  his  stead.  A  light  gleamed  through  the 
chink  in  the  partition.  We  strained  our  ears  to 
catch  the  snatches  of  conversation.  Though  our 
unknown  travelling  companions  were  invisible  in  the 
darkness,  I  felt  that  they  too  were  listening  intently. 
But  nothing  but  muffled  undertones  came  through 
the  partition.  The  train  moved  forward,  the  shuffling 
in  the  corridors  continuing.  Then  suddenly  our  door 
was  rudely  slid  open.  Our  hearts  stood  still.  We 
prepared  to  rise  to  receive  the  searchers.  The  same 
man  with  the  candle  stood  in  the  doorway.  But 
all  he  said  on  seeing  us  again  was,  "Ach — yes!"  in  a 
peevish  voice,  and  pushed  the  door  to.  We  waited 
in  protracted  suspense.    Why  did  nobody  come?    The 


304        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

whole  train  had  been  searched  except  for  our  half 
compartment.  There  was  silence  now  in  the  corridor 
and  only  mutterings  came  through  the  partition. 
The  pallid  dawn  began  to  spread.  We  saw  each  other 
in  dim  outline,  five  men  in  a  row,  sitting  motionless 
in  silent,  racking  expectation.  It  was  light  when 
we  reached  Rezhitsa.  Impatiently  we  remained  seated 
while  our  two  unknown  companions  moved  out  with 
their  things.  We  had  to  let  them  go  first,  before  we 
could  recover  the  three  packages  slidden  under  the 
seat.  As  if  in  a  dream,  we  pushed  out  with  the  last 
of  the  crowd,  moved  hastily  along  the  platform,  and 
dived  into  the  hustling  mass  of  soldiers  and  peasant 
men  and  women  filling  the  waiting  room.  Here  only 
we  spoke  to  each  other.  The  same  words  came — 
mechanically  and  drily,  as  if  unreal:  "They  overlooked, 
us!" 

Then  we  laughed. 

An  hour  later  we  were  ensconced  in  a  freight  train 
which  was  to  take  us  the  last  ten  miles  to  the  location 
of  our  artillery  brigade.  The  train  was  almost  empty 
and  the  three  of  us  had  a  box-car  to  ourselves.  A 
couple  of  miles  before  we  reached  our  destination  we 
jumped  off  the  moving  train,  and,  dashing  into  the 
woods,  ran  hard  till  we  were  sure  there  was  no  pursuit. 
The  younger  of  my  companions  knew  the  district 
and  conducted  us  to  a  cottage  where  we  gave  our- 
selves out  to  be  "Greens" — neither  Reds  nor  Whites. 
The  nickname  of  "green  guards"  was  applied  to  wide- 
spread and  irregular  bands  of  deserters  both  from  the 
Red  and  White  armies,  and  the  epithet  arose  from 
the  fact  that  they  bolted  for  the  woods  and  hid  in 
great  numbers  in    the   fields   and   forests.     The  first 


ESCAPE  305 

"Greens"  were  anti-Red,  but  a  dose  of  White  regime 
served  to  make  them  equally  anti-White,  so  that 
at  various  times  they  might  be  found  on  either  side 
or  none.  It  was  easy  for  them  to  maintain  a  separate 
roving  existence,  for  the  peasantry,  seeing  in  them 
the  truest  protagonists  of  peasant  interests,  fed, 
supported,  and  aided  them  in  every  way.  Under 
leaders  who  maintained  with  them  terms  of  camaraderie 
it  was  not  difficult  to  make  disciplined  forces  out  of 
the  unorganized  Greens.  Not  far  from  the  point 
where  we  were,  a  band  of  Greens  had  turned  out  a 
trainload  of  Reds  at  a  wayside  station  and  ordered 
"all  Communists  and  Jews"  to  "own  up."  They 
were  shown  up  readily  enough  by  the  other  Red  soldiers 
and  shot  on  the  spot.  The  remainder  were  disarmed, 
taken  into  the  station,  given  a  good  feed,  and  then 
told  they  might  do  as  they  liked — return  to  the  Reds, 
join  the  WTiites,  or  stay  with  the  Greens — "which- 
ever they  preferred." 

Our  humble  host  fed  us  and  lent  us  a  cart  in  which 
we  drove  toward  evening  to  a  point  about  two  miles 
east  of  Lake  Luban,  which  then  lay  in  the  line  of  the 
Latvian  front.  Here  in  the  woods  we  climbed  out 
of  the  cart  and  the  peasant  drove  home.  The  ground 
round  Lake  Luban  is  very  marshy,  so  there  were  but 
few  outposts.  On  the  map  it  is  marked  as  impassable 
bog.  When  we  got  near  the  shore  of  the  lake  we 
lay  low  till  after  dark  and  then  started  to  walk  round 
it.  It  was  a  long  way,  for  the  lake  is  about  sixteen 
miles  long  and  eight  or  ten  across.  To  walk  in  the 
woods  was  impossible,  for  they  were  full  of  trenches 
and  barbed  wire  and  it  was  pitch-dark.  So  we  waded 
through  the  bog,  at  every  step  sinking  half  way  up  to 


306        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

the  knees  and  sometimes  nearly  waist-deep.  It  was 
indeed  a  veritable  slough  of  despond.  After  about 
three  hours,  when  I  could  scarcely  drag  one  leg  after 
the  other  any  farther  through  the  mire,  and  drowning 
began  to  seem  a  happy  issue  out  of  present  tribulation, 
we  came  upon  a  castaway  fishing  boat  providentially 
stranded  amongst  the  rushes.  It  was  a  rickety  old 
thing,  and  it  leaked  dreadfully,  but  we  found  it  would 
hold  us  if  one  man  bailed  all  the  time.  There  were 
no  oars,  so  we  cut  boughs  to  use  in  their  stead,  and, 
with  nothing  to  guide  us  but  the  ever  kindly  stars, 
pushed  out  over  the  dark  and  silent  rush-grown  waters 
and  rowed  ourselves  across  to  Latvia. 

The  romantic  beauty  of  September  dawn  smiled 
on  a  world  made  ugly  only  by  wars  and  rumours  of 
wars.  When  the  sun  rose  our  frail  bark  was  far  out 
in  the  middle  of  a  fairy  lake.  The  ripples,  laughing 
as  they  lapped,  whispered  secrets  of  a  universe  where 
rancour,  jealousies,  and  strife  were  never  known. 
Only  away  to  the  north  the  guns  began  ominously 
booming.  My  companions  were  happy,  and  they 
laughed  and  sang  merrily  as  they  punted  and  bailed. 
But  my  heart  was  in  the  land  I  had  left,  a  land  of 
sorrow,  suffering,  and  despair;  yet  a  land  of  contrasts, 
of  hidden  genius,  and  of  untold  possibilities;  where 
barbarism  and  saintliness  live  side  by  side,  and  where 
the  only  treasured  law,  now  trampled  underfoot, 
is  the  unwritten  one  of  human  kindness.  "Some 
day,"  I  meditated  as  I  sat  at  the  end  of  the  boat  and 
worked  my  branch,  "this  people  will  come  into  their 
own."  And  I,  too,  laughed  as  I  listened  to  the  story 
of  the  rippling  waters. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

CONCLUSION 

As  I  put  pen  to  paper  to  write  the  concluding  chapter 
of  this  book  the  news  is  arriving  of  the  affliction  of 
Russia  with  one  of  her  periodical  famine  scourges, 
an  event  which  cannot  fail  to  affect  the  country  po- 
litically as  well  as  economically.  Soviet  organizations 
are  incompetent  to  cope  with  such  a  situation.  For 
the  most  pronounced  effect  both  on  the  workers  and 
on  the  peasantry  of  the  communistic  experiment  has 
been  to  eliminate  the  stimulus  to  produce,  and  the 
restoration  of  liberty  of  trading  came  too  late  to  be 
effective.  A  situation  has  arisen  in  which  Russia  must 
make  herself  completely  dependent  for  rescue  upon 
the  countries  against  which  her  governors  have 
declared  a  ruthless  political  war. 

The  Communists  are  between  the  devil  and  the 
deep  sea.  To  say  "Russia  first"  is  equivalent  to 
abandoning  hope  of  the  world  revolution,  for  Russia 
can  only  be  restored  by  capitalistic  and  bourgeois 
enterprise.  But  neither  does  the  prospect  of  refusing 
all  truck  with  capitalists,  preserving  Russia  in  the 
position  of  world-revolutionary  citadel,  offer  any 
but  feeble  hopes  of  world-revolutionary  success.  For 
the  gulf  between  "the  party"  and  the  Russian  people, 
or  as  Lenin  has  recently  expressed  it  in  a  letter  to 
a  friend  in  France,*  "the  gulf  between  the  governors 

♦Published  in  the  New  York  Times,  August  24,  1921. 

307 


308        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

and  the  governed,"  is  growing  ever  wider.  Many 
Communists  show  signs  of  weakening  faith.  Bour- 
geois tendencies,  as  Lenin  observes,  "are  gnawing 
more  and  more  at  the  heart  of  the  party."  Lastly 
and  most  terrible,  the  proletarians  of  the  West,  upon 
whom  the  Bolsheviks  from  their  earliest  moments 
based  all  their  hopes,  show  no  sign  whatever  of  ful- 
filling the  constantly  reiterated  Bolshevist  prediction 
that  they  would  rise  in  their  millions  and  save  the 
only  true  proletarian  government  from  destruction. 
Alas,  there  is  but  one  way  to  bridge  the  gulf  dividing 
the  party  from  the  people.  It  is  for  Russian  Com- 
munists to  cease  to  be  first  Communists  and  then 
Russians,  and  to  become  Russians  and  nothing  else. 
To  expect  this  of  the  Third  International,  however,  is 
hopeless.  Its  adherents  possess  none  of  the  greatness 
of  their  master,  who,  despite  subsequent  casuistic 
tortuosities,  has  demonstrated  the  ability,  so  rarely 
possessed  by  modern  politicians,  honestly  and  frankly 
to  confess  that  the  policy  he  had  inaugurated  was  to- 
tally wrong.  The  creation  of  the  Third  International 
was  perhaps  inevitable,  embodying  as  it  does  the 
essentials  of  the  Bolshevist  creed,  but  it  was  a  fatal 
step.  If  the  present  administration  lays  any  claim 
to  be  a  Russian  government,  then  the  Third  Inter- 
national is  its  enemy.  Even  in  June,  1921,  at  the 
very  time  when  the  Soviet  Government  was  con- 
sidering its  appeal  to  western  philanthropy,  the  Third 
International  was  proclaiming  its  insistence  on  an 
immediate  world  revolution  and  discussing  the  most 
effective  methods  of  promoting  and  exploiting  the 
war  which  Trotzky  declared  to  be  inevitable  between 
Great  Britain  and  France,  and  Great  Britain  and  the 


CONCLUSION  309 

United  States!  But  there  are  Communists  who  are  will- 
ing to  put  Russia  first,  overshadowed  though  they  often 
be  by  the  International;  and  the  extent  to  which  the 
existing  organized  administration  may  be  utilized  to 
assist  in  the  alleviation  of  suffering  and  a  bloodless 
transition  to  sane  government  depends  upon  the 
degree  in  which  Communist  leaders  unequivocally 
repudiate  Bolshevist  theories  and  become  the  nearest 
things  possible  to  patriots. 

There  are  many  reasons  why,  in  the  event  of  a 
modification  of  regime,  the  retention  of  some  organized 
machine,  even  that  established  by  the  Communists, 
is  desirable.  In  the  first  place  there  is  no  alternative 
ready  to  supplant  it.  Secondly,  the  soviet  system 
has  existed  hitherto  only  in  name,  the  Bolsheviks 
have  never  permitted  it  to  function,  and  there  is  no 
evidence  to  prove  that  such  a  system  of  popular  councils 
properly  elected  would  be  a  bad  basis  for  at  least  a 
temporary  system  of  administration.  Thirdly,  Bol- 
shevist invitations  to  non-Bolshevist  experts  to  function 
on  administrative  bodies,  especially  in  the  capitals, 
began  as  I  have  already  pointed  out  at  an  early  date. 
For  one  reason  or  other,  sometimes  under  compulsion, 
sometimes  voluntarily,  many  of  these  invitations  have 
been  accepted.  Jealously  supervised  by  the  Com- 
munist party,  experts  who  are  anything  but  Com- 
munists hold  important  posts  in  government  de- 
partments. They  will  obviously  be  better  versed 
in  the  exigencies  of  the  internal  situation  than  out- 
siders. To  sweep  away  the  entire  apparatus  means 
to  sweep  away  such  men  and  women  with  it,  which 
would  be  disastrous.  It  is  only  the  purely  political 
organizations — the  entire  paraphernalia  of  the   Third 


310        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

International  and  its  department  of  propaganda,  for 
instance,  and,  of  course,  the  Extraordinary  Com- 
mission— that  must  be  consigned  bag  and  baggage 
to  the  rubbish  heap. 

I  have  always  emphasized  the  part  silently  and 
self-sacrificingly  played  by  a  considerable  section  of 
the  intellectual  class  who  have  never  fled  from  Russia 
to  harbours  of  safety,  but  remained  to  bear  on  their 
backs,  together  with  the  mass  of  the  people,  the  brunt 
of  adversity  and  affliction.  These  are  the  great 
heroes  of  the  revolution,  though  their  names  may 
never  be  known.  They  will  be  found  among  teachers, 
doctors,  nurses,  matrons,  leaders  of  the  former  co- 
operative societies,  and  so  forth,  whose  one  aim  has 
been  to  save  whatever  they  could  from  wreckage  or 
political  vitiation.  Subjected  at  first  to  varying 
degrees  of  molestation  and  insult,  they  stuck  it  through 
despite  all,  and  have  never  let  pass  an  opportunity 
to  alleviate  distress.  Their  unselfish  labours  have 
restored  even  some  of  the  soviet  departments,  par- 
ticularly such  as  are  completely  non-political  in  char- 
acter, to  a  state  of  considerable  efficiency.  This  is 
no  indication  of  devotion  to  Bolshevism,  but  rather 
of  devotion  to  the  people  despite  Bolshevism.  I 
believe  the  number  of  such  disinterested  individuals 
to  be  much  larger  than  is  generally  supposed  and  it 
is  to  them  that  we  must  turn  to  learn  the  innermost 
desires  and  needs  of  the  masses. 

I  will  cite  in  this  connection  a  single  instance. 
There  was  formed  just  previous  to  the  Great  War 
an  organization  known  as  the  League  for  the  Pro- 
tection of  Children,  which  combined  a  number  of 
philanthropic  institutions  and  waged  war  on  juvenile 


CONCLUSION  311 

criminality.  As  a  private  non-State  and  bourgeois  in- 
stitution its  activities  were  suppressed  by  the  Bolshe- 
viks, who  sought  to  concentrate  all  children's  welfare 
work  in  Bolshevist  establishments,  the  atmosphere  of 
which  was  political  and  the  objects  propagandist.  The 
state  of  these  establishments  varies,  some  being  main- 
tained by  special  effort  in  a  condition  of  relative  cleanli- 
ness, but  the  majority,  according  to  the  published  state- 
ments of  the  Bolsheviks,  falling  into  a  condition  of 
desperate  insanitation  and  neglect.  In  any  case, 
toward  the  close  of  1920,  the  Bolsheviks  were  con- 
strained, in  view  of  ever-increasing  juvenile  depravity 
and  demoralization,  to  appeal  to  the  remnants  of  the 
despised  bourgeois  League  for  the  Protection  of  Chil- 
dren to  investigate  the  condition  of  the  children  of  the 
capitals  and  suggest  means  for  their  reclamation.  The 
report  submitted  by  the  League  was  appalling  in  the 
extreme.  I  am  unable  to  say  whether  the  recommen- 
dations suggested  were  accepted  by  the  rulers,  but  the 
significance  lies  in  the  fact  that,  notwithstanding  per- 
secution, the  League  has  contrived  to  maintain  some 
form  of  underground  existence  through  the  worst  years 
of  oppression,  and  its  leaders  are  at  hand,  the  moment 
political  freedom  is  reestablished,  to  recommence  the 
work  of  rescuing  the  children  or  to  advise  those  who 
enter  the  country  from  abroad  with  that  benevolent 
object. 

The  fact  that  the  Russian  people,  unled,  unorganized, 
and  coerced,  are  growing  indifferent  to  politics,  but 
that  the  better  and  educated  elements  amongst  them 
are  throwing  themselves  into  any  and  every  work, 
economic  or  humanitarian,  that  may  stave  off  complete 
disaster,  leads  to  the  supposition  that  if  any  healthy 


312        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

influence  from  outside,  in  the  form  of  economic  or 
philanthropic  aid,  is  introduced  into  Russia,  it 
will  rally  round  it  corresponding  forces  within 
the  country  and  strengthen  them.  This  indeed  has 
always  been  the  most  forceful  argument  in  favour 
of  entering  into  relations  with  Bolshevist  Russia. 
The  fact  that  warring  against  the  Red  regime  has 
greatly  fortified  its  power  is  now  a  universally  recog- 
nized fact;  and  this  has  resulted  not  because  the  Red 
armies,  as  such,  were  invincible,  but  because  the 
politics  of  the  Reds'  opponents  were  selfish  and  con- 
fused, their  minds  seemed  askew,  and  their  failure 
to  propose  a  workable  alternative  to  Bolshevism 
served  to  intensify  the  nausea  which  overcomes  the 
Russian  intellectual  in  Petrograd  and  Moscow  when- 
ever he  is  drawn  into  the  hated  region  of  party  poli- 
tics. So  great  indeed  is  the  aversion  of  the  bourgeois 
intellectual  for  politics  that  he  may  have  to  be  pushed 
back  into  it,  but  he  must  first  be  strengthened  physically 
and  the  country  aided  economically. 

Whether  the  intervention  should  be  of  an  economic 
or  philanthropic  character  was  a  year  ago  a  secondary 
question.  The  Bolshevist  regime  being  based  almost 
entirely  on  abnormalities,  it  needed  but  the  establish- 
ment of  any  organization  on  normal  lines  for  the 
latter  ultimately  to  supersede  the  former.  Now, 
however,  the  intervention  must  needs  be  humanitarian. 
Soviet  Russia  has  resembled  a  closed  room  in  which 
some  foul  disease  was  developing,  and  which  other 
occupants  of  the  house  in  the  interests  of  self-protection 
tightly  closed  and  barred  lest  infection  leak  out.  But 
infection  has  constanty  leaked  out,  and  if  it  has  been 
virulent  it  is  only  because  the  longer  and  tighter  the 


CONCLUSION  313 

room  was  barred,  the  fouler  became  the  air  within! 
This  was  not  the  way  to  purify  the  chamber,  whose 
use  everyone  recognized  as  indispensable.  We  must 
unbolt  the  doors,  unbar  the  windows,  and  force  in 
the  light  and  air  we  believe  in.  Then,  the  occupants 
being  tended  and  the  chamber  thoroughly  cleansed,  it 
will  once  again  become  habitable. 

Is  it  too  late  to  accomplish  this  vast  humanitarian 
task?  Is  the  disaster  so  great  that  the  maximum  of 
the  world's  effort  will  be  merely  a  palliative?  Time 
will  show.  But  if  the  Russian  dilemma  has  not 
outgrown  the  world's  ability  to  solve  it,  Russia  must 
for  years  to  come  be  primarily  a  humanitarian  prob- 
lem, to  be  approached  from  the  humanitarian  stand- 
point. 

There  are  many  who  fear  that  even  now  the  faction 
of  the  Third  International  will  surely  seek  to  ex- 
ploit the  magnanimity  of  other  countries  to  its  own 
political  advantage.  Of  course  it  will !  The  ideals  of 
that  institution  dictate  that  the  appeal  to  western 
philanthropy  shall  conceal  a  dagger  such  as  was 
secreted  behind  the  olive  branch  to  western  cap- 
italism. Has  not  the  Third  International  to  this 
day  persistently  proclaimed  its  intention  to  conspire 
against  the  very  governments  with  which  the  Bol- 
sheviks have  made,  or  are  hoping  to  make,  commercial 
contracts,  and  from  which  they  now  beg  philanthropic 
aid?  But  the  Third  International,  I  believe,  has 
a  bark  which  is  much  worse  than  its  bite.  Our  fear 
of  it  is  largely  of  our  own  creation.  Its  lack  of  under- 
standing of  the  psychology  of  western  workers  is 
amazing,  and  its  appeals  are  astonishingly  illogical. 
To  kill  it,  let  it  talk. 


314        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

The  essential  impotence  of  the  Third  International 
is  fully  recognized  by  those  little  nations  that  were 
once  part  of  Russia.  Having  thrown  off  the  yoke 
of  revolution,  they  have  long  sought  to  open  economic 
intercourse  with  their  unlovable  eastern  neighbour. 
True,  their  attitude  is  inspired  in  part  by  apprehension 
of  those  who  would  compel  them  forcibly  to  renew  the 
severed  tie  rather  than  allow  them  to  re-unite  volun- 
tarily with  Russia  when  the  time  shall  mature; 
but  their  desire  for  normal  intercourse  is  based 
primarily  on  the  conviction  that  the  communistic 
experiment  would  rapidly  succumb  under  any  normal 
conditions  introduced  from  outside.  Nothing  will 
undermine  Bolshevism  so  effectually  as  kindness,  and 
the  more  non -political,  disinterested,  and  all-embracing 
that  kindness,  the  geater  will  be  its  effect.  With 
the  supplanting  of  the  spirit  of  political  bigotry  by 
that  of  human  sympathy  many  rank  and  file  Com- 
munists, attracted  to  the  party  in  their  ignor- 
ance by  its  deceptive  catch-phraseology  and  the 
energy,  resolution,  and  hypnotic  influence  of  its 
leaders,  will  realize  with  the  rest  of  Russia  and  with 
the  whole  world  that  Bolshevism  is  politically  a  des- 
potism, economically  a  folly,  and  as  a  democracy  a 
stupendous  delusion,  which  will  never  guide  the 
proletarian  ship  to  the  harbour  of  communistic  felicity. 

Misgivings  are  often  expressed  in  liberally  minded 
circles  that  redaction  might  undo  all  that  has  been 
achieved  since  that  historic  moment  when  Nicholas 
II  signed  the  deed  of  abdication  from  the  Russian 
throne.  "Reaction,"  in  these  days  of  loose  terminology, 
is  as  abused  a  word  as  "bourgeois,"  ''proletariat,"  or 
"soviet."     If  it  means  stepping   backward,    a   certain 


CONCLUSION  315 

amount  of  healthy  reaction  in  Russia  is  both  desirable 
and  inevitable.  Are  not  retrogression  and  progress 
at  times  identical?  No  man,  having  taken  the  wrong 
turning,  can  advance  upon  his  pilgrimage  until  he 
returns  to  the  cross-roads.  But  the  Russian  nation 
has  undergone  a  psychological  revolution  more  pro- 
found than  any  visible  changes,  great  though  these 
be,  and  the  maximum  of  possible  reaction  must  still 
leave  the  country  transformed  beyond  recognition. 
This  would  still  be  the  case  even  if  the  sum-total  of 
revolutionary  achievements  were  confined  to  the  decrees 
promulgated  during  the  first  month  after  the  overthrow 
of  the  Tsar.     We  need  not  fear  healthy  reaction. 

No  power  on  earth  can  deprive  the  peasant  of  the 
land  now  acquired,  in  the  teeth  of  landlord  and  Bol- 
shevik alike,  on  a  basis  of  private  ownership.  By 
strange  irony  of  fate,  the  Communist  regime  has 
made  the  Russian  peasant  still  less  communistic  than 
he  was  under  the  Tsar.  And  with  the  assurance  of 
personal  possession,  there  must  rapidly  develop  that 
sense  of  responsibility,  dignity,  and  pride  which  well- 
tended  property  always  engenders.  For  the  Russian 
loves  the  soil  with  all  his  heart,  with  all  his  soul,  and 
with  all  his  mind.  His  folksongs  are  full  of  affec- 
tionate descriptions  of  it.  His  plough  and  his  harrow 
are  to  him  more  than  mere  wood  and  iron.  He  loves 
to  think  of  them  as  living  things,  as  personal  friends. 
Barbaric  instincts  have  been  aroused  by  the  Revo- 
lution, and  this  simple  but  exalted  mentality  will 
remain  in  abeyance  as  long  as  those  continue  to 
rule  who  despise  the  peasant's  primitive  aspirations  and 
whose  world-revolutionary  aims  are  incomprehensible 
to  him.    A  veiled  threat  still  lies  behind  ambiguous 


316        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

and  inconsistent  Bolshevist  protestations.  When  this 
veiled  threat  is  eliminated  and  the  peasant  comes 
fully  into  his  own  I  am  convinced  that  he  will  be  found 
to  have  developed  independent  ideas  and  an  unlooked- 
for  capacity  for  judgment  and  reflection  which  will 
astonish  the  world,  and  which  with  but  little  practice 
will  thoroughly  fit  him  for  all  the  duties  of  citizenship. 

Shortly  after  the  Baltic  republic  of  Lithuania  had 
come  to  terms  with  Soviet  Russia,  one  of  the  members 
of  the  Lithuanian  delegation  who  had  just  returned 
from  Moscow  told,  me  the  following  incident.  In 
discussing  with  the  Bolsheviks,  out  of  official  hours, 
the  internal  Russian  situation,  the  Lithuanians  asked 
how,  in  view  of  the  universal  misery  and  lack  of 
liberty,  the  Communists  continued  to  maintain  their 
dominance.  To  which  a  prominent  Bolshevist  leader 
laconically  replied:  "Our  power  is  based  on  three 
things:  first,  on  Jewish  brains;  secondly,  on  Lettish 
and  Chinese  bayonets;  and  thirdly,  on  the  crass 
stupidity  of  the  Russian  people." 

This  incident  eminently  betrays  the  true  sentiments 
of  the  Bolshevist  leaders  toward  the  Russians.  They 
despise  the  people  over  whom  they  rule.  They  regard 
themselves  as  of  superior  type,  a  sort  of  cream 
of  humanity,  the  "vanguard  of  the  revolutionary 
proletariat, "  as  they  often  call  themselves.  The 
Tsarist  Government,  except  in  its  final  degenerate  days, 
was  at  least  Russian  in  its  sympathies.  The  kernel 
of  the  Russian  tragedy  lies  not  in  the  brutality  of 
the  Extraordinary  Commission,  nor  even  in  the  sup- 
pression of  every  form  of  freedom,  but  in  the  fact 
that  the  Revolution,  which  dawned  so  auspiciously  and 
promised  so  much,  has  actually  given  Russia  a  govern- 


CONCLUSION  317 

ment  utterly  alienated  from  the  sympathies,  aspirations, 
and  ideals  of  the  nation. 

The  Bolshevist  leader  would  find  but  few  disputants 
of  his  admission  that  Bolshevist  power  rests  to  large 
extent  on  Jewish  brains  and  Chinese  bayonets.  But 
his  gratitude  for  the  stupidity  of  the  Russian  people 
is  misplaced.  The  Russian  people  have  shown  not 
stupidity  but  eminent  wisdom  in  repudiating  both 
Communism  and  the  alternative  to  it  presented  by 
the  landlords  and  the  generals.  Their  tolerance  of 
the  Red  preferably  to  the  White  is  based  upon  the 
conviction,  universal  throughout  Russia,  that  the 
Red  is  a  merely  passing  phenomenon.  Human  nature 
decrees  this,  but  there  was  no  such  guarantee  against 
the  Whites  with  the  support  of  the  Allies  behind 
them.  A  people  culturally  and  politically  immature 
like  the  Russians  may  not  easily  be  able  to  embody 
in  a  formula  the  longings  that  stir  the  hidden  depths 
of  their  soul,  but  you  cannot  on  this  account  call 
them  stupid.  The  Bolsheviks  are  all  formula — 
empty  formula — and  no  soul.  The  Russians  are  all 
soul  with  no  formula.  They  possess  no  developed 
system  of  self-expression  outside  the  arts.  To  the 
Bolshevik  the  letter  is  all  in  all.  He  is  the  slave  of 
his  shibboleths.  To  the  Russian  the  letter  is  nothing; 
it  is  only  the  spirit  that  matters.  More  keenly  than 
is  common  in  the  western  world  he  senses  that  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  is  to  be  found  not  in  politics  or 
creeds  of  any  sort  or  kind,  but  simply  within  each  one 
of  us  as  individuals. 

The  man  who  says:  "The  Russians  are  a  nation  of 
fools,"  assumes  a  prodigious  responsibility.  You  can- 
not call  a  people  stupid  who  in  a  single  century  have 


318        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

raised  themselves  from  obscurity  to  a  position  of  pre- 
eminence in  the  arts,  literature,  and  philosophy.  And 
whence  did  this  galaxy  of  geniuses  from  Glinka  to 
Scriabine  and  Stravinsky,  or  such  as  Dostoievsky, 
Turgeniev,  Tolstoy,  and  the  host  of  others  whose 
works  have  so  profoundly  affected  the  thought  of  the 
last  half-century — whence  did  they  derive  their  in- 
spiration if  not  from  the  common  people  around  them? 
The  Russian  nation,  indeed,  is  not  one  of  fools,  but 
of  potential  geniuses.  But  the  trend  of  their  genius 
is  not  that  of  western  races.  It  lies  in  the  arts  and 
philosophy  and  rarely  descends  to  the  more  sordid 
realms  of  politics  and  commerce. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  a  reputation  for  unpracticalness, 
the  Russians  have  shown  the  world  at  least  one  supreme 
example  of  economic  organization.  It  is  forgotten 
nowadays  that  Russia  deserves  an  equal  share  in  the 
honours  of  the  Great  War.  She  bore  the  brunt  of  the 
first  two  years  of  it  and  made  possible  the  long  defence 
of  the  western  front.  And  it  is  forgotten  (if  ever  it 
was  fully  recognized)  that  while  corruption  at  Court 
and  treachery  in  highest  military  circles  were  leading 
Russia  to  perdition,  the  provisioning  of  the  army  and 
of  the  cities  was  upheld  heroically,  with  chivalrous 
self-sacrifice,  and  with  astonishing  proficiency,  by 
the  one  great  democratic  and  popularly  controlled 
organization  Russia  has  ever  possessed,  to  wit,  the 
Union  of  Cooperative  Societies.  The  almost  in- 
credible success  of  the  Russian  cooperative  move- 
ment was  due,  I  believe,  more  than  anything  else 
to  the  spirit  of  devotion  that  actuated  its  leaders.  It 
is  futile  to  point,  as  some  do,  to  exceptional  cases  of 
malpractices.    When  an  organization  springs  up  with 


CONCLUSION  319 

mushroom  growth,  as  did  the  Russian  cooperatives, 
defects  are  bound  to  arise.  The  fact  remains  that 
by  the  time  the  Revolution  came,  the  Russian  cooper- 
ative societies  were  not  only  supplying  the  army  but 
also  providing  for  the  needs  of  almost  the  entire  nation 
with  an  efficiency  unsurpassed  in  any  other  country. 

The  Bolsheviks  waged  a  ruthless  and  desperate 
war  against  public  cooperation.  The  Cooperative 
Unions  represented  an  organ  independent  of  the 
State  and  could  therefore  not  be  tolerated  under  a 
Communist  regime.  But,  like  religion,  cooperation 
could  never  be  completely  uprooted.  On  the  con- 
trary, their  own  administration  being  so  incompetent, 
the  Bolsheviks  have  on  many  occasions  been  compelled 
to  appeal  to  what  was  left  of  the  cooperative  so- 
cieties to  help  them  out,  especially  in  direct  dealings 
with  the  peasantry.  So  that,  although  free  coopera- 
tion is  entirely  suppressed,  the  shell  of  the  former 
great  organization  exists  in  a  mutilated  form,  and 
offers  hope  for  its  resuscitation  in  the  future  when 
all  cooperative  leaders  are  released  from  prison. 
There  are  many  ways  of  reducing  the  Russian  problem 
to  simple  terms,  and  not  the  least  apt  is  a  struggle 
between  Cooperation  and  Coercion. 

A  deeper  significance  is  attached  in  Russia  to  the 
word  "Cooperation"  than  is  usual  in  western  countries. 
The  Russian  Cooperative  Unions  up  to  the  time 
when  the  Bolsheviks  seized  power  by  no  means  limited 
their  activities  to  the  mere  acquisition  and  distri- 
bution of  the  first  necessities  of  life.  They  had  also 
their  own  press  organs,  independent  and  well-informed, 
they  were  opening  scholastic  establishments,  public 
libraries  and  reading  rooms,  and  they  were  organizing 


320        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

departments  of  Public  Health  and  Welfare.  Russian 
Cooperation  must  be  understood  in  the  widest  possible 
sense  of  mutual  aid  and  the  dissemination  of  mental 
and  moral  as  well  as  of  physical  sustenance.  It  is 
a  literal  application  on  a  wide  social  scale  of  the  ex- 
hortation to  do  unto  others  as  you  would  that  they 
should  do  to  you.  This  comprehensive  and  idealistic 
movement  was  the  nearest  expression  yet  manifested 
of  the  Russian  social  ideal,  and  I  believe  that,  what- 
ever the  outward  form  of  the  future  constitution  of 
Russia  may  be,  in  essence  it  will  resolve  itself  into  a 
Cooperative  Commonwealth. 

There  is  one  factor  in  the  Russian  problem  which 
is  bound  to  play  a  large  part  in  its  solution,  although 
it  is  the  most  indefinite.  I  mean  the  power  of  emotion- 
alism. Emotionalism  is  the  strongest  trait  of  the 
Russian  character  and  it  manifests  itself  most  often, 
especially  in  the  peasantry,  in  religion.  The  cal- 
culated efforts  of  the  Bolsheviks  to  suppress  religion 
were  shattered  on  the  rocks  of  popular  belief.  Their 
categorical  prohibition  to  participate  in  or  attend  any 
religious  rites  was  ultimately  confined  solely  to  Com- 
munists, who  when  convicted  of  attending  divine 
services  are  liable  to  expulsion  from  the  privileged 
ranks  for  "tarnishing  the  reputation  of  the  party." 
As  regards  the  general  populace,  to  proclaim  that 
Christianity  is  "the  opium  of  the  people"  is  as  far 
as  the  Communists  now  dare  go  in  their  dissuasions. 
But  the  people  flock  to  church  more  than  ever  they 
did  before,  and  this  applies  not  only  to  the  peasants 
and  factory-hands  but  also  to  the  bourgeoisie,  who 
it  was  thought  were  growing  indifferent  to  religion. 
This  is  not  the  first  time  that  under  national  affliction 


CONCLUSION  321 

the  Russian  people  have  sought  solace  in  higher  things. 
Under  the  Tartar  yoke  they  did  the  same,  forgetting 
their  material  woes  in  the  creation  cf  many  of  those 
architectural  monuments,  often  quaint  and  fantastic 
but  always  impressive,  in  which  they  now  worship. 
I  will  not  venture  to  predict  what  precisely  may  be 
the  outcome  of  the  religious  revival  which  undoubtedly 
is  slowly  developing,  but  will  content  myself  with 
quoting  the  words  of  a  Moscow  workman,  just  arrived 
from  the  Red  capital,  whom  I  met  in  the  northern 
Ukraine  in  November,  1920.  "There  is  only  one  man 
in  the  whole  of  Russia,"  said  this  workman,  "whom 
the  Bolsheviks  fear  from  the  bottom  of  their  hearts,  and 
that  is  Tihon,  the  Patriarch  of  the  Russian  Church." 


A  story  runs  of  a  Russian  peasant,  who  dreamt 
that  he  was  presented  with  a  huge  bowl  of  delicious 
gruel.  But,  alas,  he  was  given  no  spoon  to  eat  it 
with.  And  he  awoke.  And  his  mortification  at 
having  been  unable  to  enjoy  the  gruel  was  so  great 
that  on  the  following  night,  in  anticipation  of  a  re- 
currence of  the  same  dream,  he  was  careful  to  take 
with  him  to  bed  a  large  wooden  spoon  to  eat  the 
gruel  with  when  next  it  should  appear. 

The  untouched  plate  of  gruel  is  like  the  priceless 
gift  of  liberty  presented  to  the  Russian  people  by  the 
Revolution.  Was  it,  after  all,  to  be  expected  that 
after  centuries  of  despotism,  and  amid  circumstances 
of  world  cataclysm,  the  Russian  nation  would  all  at 
once  be  inspired  with  knowledge  of  how  to  use  the 
new-found  treasure,  and  of  the  duties  and  responsi- 
bilities that  accompany  it?     But  I  am  convinced  that 


322        RED  DUSK  AND  THE  MORROW 

during  these  dark  years  of  affliction  the  Russian  peas- 
ant is,  so  to  speak,  fashioning  for  himself  a  spoon, 
and  when  again  the  dream  occurs,  he  will  possess 
the  wherewithal  to  eat  his  gruel.  Much  faith  is 
needed  to  look  ahead  through  the  black  night  of  the 
present  and  still  see  dawn  ahead,  but  eleven  years  of 
life  amongst  all  classes  from  peasant  to  courtier  have 
perhaps  infected  me  with  a  spark  of  that  patriotic 
love  which,  despite  an  affectation  of  pessimism  and 
self-deprecation,  does  almost  invariably  glow  deep 
down  in  the  heart  of  every  Russian.  I  make  no 
excuse  for  concluding  this  book  with  the  oft-quoted 
lines  of  "the  people's  poet,"  Tiutchev,  who  said  more 
about  his  country  in  four  simple  lines  than  all  other 
poets,  writers,  and  philosophers  together.  In  their 
simplicity  and  beauty  the  lines  are  quite  untranslatable, 
and  my  free  adaptation  to  the  English,  which  must 
needs  be  inadequate,  I  append  with  apologies  to 
all   Russians: 

Umom  Rossii  nie  poniatj; 
Arshinom  obshchym  nie  izmieriij; 
U  niei  osobiennaya  statj — 
V  Rossiu  mozhno  tolko  vieritj. 

Seek  not  by  Reason  to  discern 

The  soul  of  Russia :  or  to  learn 

Her  thoughts  by  measurements  designed 

For  other  lands.     Her  heart,  her  mind, 

Her  ways  in  suffering,  woe,  and  need, 

Her  aspirations  and  her  creed, 

Are  all  her  own — 

Depths  undefined, 
To  be  discovered,  fathomed,  known 

By  Faith  alone. 

THE   END 


APR  1  5  1982 

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DK2ob  D83 
Dukes ,  Paul , 
Red  dusk:  and 


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